The Show Must Go On
by vinnie2757
Summary: The year is 1923, and Alfred F. Jones has been sent to Paris, France, in order to bring some much needed revenue back into the country by writing a play for the Moulin Rouge. There's just one problem. No one told him it was a cabaret. US/fem!UK
1. Enter Stage Left: Alfred

**Title: **The Show Must Go On

**Fandom: **_Hetalia: Axis Powers_

**Author: ** Me, or it was the last time I checked.

**Genre:** romance, AU, background-slash, angst, x-over

**Pairing(s): **US/fem!UK, Can/fem!Pru, GerTalia, LietPol, Bela-Rus, GiriPan, HunAus, Spamano, SuFin and some others maybe

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Genderbent!England, Genderbent!Prussia, AU, language, sexual references, alcohol/drugs, background-slash, abuse, angst, character-mutilation and background character death

**Summary: **The year is 1923, and Alfred F. Jones has been sent to Paris, France, in order to bring some much needed revenue back into the country by writing a play for the _Moulin Rouge._ There's just one problem. No one told him it was a cabaret. US/fem!UK

**A/N: **There will be no actual singing, but there will be mentions of it. But anyway, _what is this_? Another project? Well, yes, that it is. Also, my notes are going to make me sound really disrespectful at times. I'm not being disrespectful, I'm just saying it how I see it; as war. ONWARDS. Notes at the end. Enjoy, my lovelies!

**Enter Stage Left; Alfred.**

At first glance, France was a wreck. But as a writer, it was Alfred Franklin Jones' duty to see the beauty in the abstract, to find desolation's white rabbit and follow it into the wonderland that lay hidden in the cracks. It didn't take him long to find said beauty and even less to find the white rabbit. There was simplicity in the mostly-repaired buildings, pleasure in the ease of movement; workmen and ladies going about their business, children playing inventive, elaborate fames of make-believe with toys made from the remnants of carnage. Alfred was reminded of an old wooden crate now rotting in an equally rotten tree-house in one of the old oaks in the fields backing his parents' home in Kansas, reminded of a time spent in that crate and running through fields of wheat taller than he was, imagining he was in space, wandering amongst the stars and the angels to be found there.

The white rabbit came in the form of a young workman, close to Alfred's age as best he gathered from the man's physical appearance, putting him in his early twenties, though where Alfred was made of lean muscle, this other man had been graced with the shoulders and arms of a man who spent a lifetime in hard labour. He also had a good inch on Alfred's six-feet, but the pleasant smile on his face belied any danger present in him. It was a small blessing to see what appeared to be kindness beneath the dust and grease on his skin and overalls.

"Hello, excuse me," Alfred began, extending a hand to stop the workman, but not close enough to touch. "I'm wondering if you can help." He spoke in flawless French because hey, this was Paris, what else was he going to speak?

"If I can," the workman replied, and there was something in his accent that Alfred couldn't place.

"I'm looking for the _Moulin Rouge_," Alfred began. "I've been wandering around for a good hour now, you see, but I haven't been able to find it."

The workman looked at him, and then said, in plain English, "What are you looking for?" The pleasant smile had turned into something defensive, even a little worried.

"The _Moulin Rouge_," Alfred replied, also in English, frowning a little himself. His French can't have been _that_ bad, surely!

"Uh-huh, and, uh, why are you looking for it?"

It felt like there was something Alfred was missing, but instead of worrying about it, he puffed up in pride. "I'm a writer! I was sent here by my boss to write a story for the _Moulin Rouge_, you see, to help the proprietor of the establishment bring in revenue."

Something about it must have been an inside joke Alfred wasn't privy to, because the workman doubled over in laughter like he might never laugh again. "Proprietor of the establishment?" he gasped. "That's how Francis introduced himself? Oh Christ, that's good. That's _so good_."

Personally, Alfred didn't get it, Francis had seemed like an alright sort when his boss had spoken of him, and when Alfred had read through letters and transcripts of telephone calls. But then again, the French were a whole other world. On that note…

"You're not from France, are you?" he asked, still trying to place the accent.

Finally curbing his laughter into a small grin that threatened more laughter, the taller man shook his head. "Nah," he agreed. "Canada."

_That_ was the accent, then. "What part?" Alfred asked then, unable to resist.

"A farm," the other replied with a little flash in the lavender of his eyes. "Saskatchewan," he added. "On the border of Alberta. At least, it was when I when I left. Haven't seen home in a good seven years, they might have sold up."

"You were posted out here?" Incredulity seemed the most idiotic of reactions, but Alfred had never been one to see the obvious, preferring to work in the obscure, the little details rather than the big picture.

The workman – the _soldier_ – nodded. "I was. I followed a British regiment for a while with what remained of my squad after Ypres and the Somme, but we went to Vimy Ridge."

Alfred had heard stories of Ypres and the use of poison gas rendering the British and French troops obsolete, leaving the Canadians to hold the line, heard stories of the Somme and of the casualties, heard stories of Vimy Ridge and he wondered if that three-day battle was the source of the shadows in his eyes.

"But you," the other continued. "You served as well. Cantigny?"

Startled, Alfred nodded. "How did you know?"

"You've got a farm-boy feel to you," the Canadian shrugged. "You can dress it up in New Yorker finery all you like, but it doesn't change who you are deep down. Most of the lads I met from Cantigny were farm-boys." He stuck a hand between them. "Matthew Williams."

Taking it without a moment's hesitation, Alfred gave his own name. There were calluses on Matthew's palm, strength in the long fingers.

"Well," Matthew said, "You caught me at a good time. I'll take you to the _Moulin Rouge_."

"You will?"

Matthew nodded, and gestured for Alfred to follow him as he set off down a cobbled street. "I just got off shift, actually, from working on the 'Line. I was going to clean up and head over myself. I owe… someone a visit."

Alfred found himself nodding along, but not really listening to what Matthew was saying until the Canadian had to yank him out of the way of a passing troop of soldiers.

"What are they up to?" Matthew murmured, stepping back into the street to watch them march off. "Occupation of the Ruhr ended months ago, and that's the only time I've ever seen them since the War."

"I didn't hear about that," Alfred admitted as they carried on.

Matthew snorted with amusement. "That's not a surprise. God, the noise they made in the 'Mill over it, Gwen especially. I told Francis to keep the news out of there, but did he listen? No. So Gwen stomped off to his office and told him what she thought of it all, but he wasn't having it." At which point Alfred returned to ignoring him, preferring instead to watch him grow more and more irate with a stray curl that refused to lie flat with the rest of his hair and wax mental poetic over the lines of the muscles in Matthew's shoulders, the set of a chiselled jaw, the messy ponytail of equally messy blond hair that wandered the tightrope of ginger and copper. There was stubble on the concave arch of that jaw, and Alfred scratched idly at his own, refusing to admit to feeling a little less male and a lot more insecure next to this paragon of masculinity walking alongside him.

Seemingly not content with making Alfred feel like the scrawny nineteen-year-old boy lying in a hospital bed recovering from his battle scars with some of the prettiest girls he'd ever seen fawning all over him when all he really wanted was his mother and the fields of gold that he'd once been, Matthew paused next to a pair of wrought iron gates and spread his hands.

"There you go, Alfred," he said. "The _Moulin Rouge_."

Its namesake stood to one side of the main building, the tattered sails turning lazily in the October breeze, the red paint as peeling as that of the rest of the complex. A large, elaborate sign hung over equally large, equally elaborate double doors. Though the outside was quiet, an odd sense of peace washing over him even as the shock settled in, the inside was bustling with activity; music and singing, shouting and laughter, the bustle of machinery and manual labour. There was no denying what the _Moulin Rouge_'s purpose was.

"Oh my God," Alfred gaped, jaw slack. "You have _got_ to be joking."

"Nope," Matthew replied, turning to lean against the gates, a filthy little grin spread across his face as he popped the 'P' and watched Alfred's jaw fall slacker. "Welcome to the _Moulin Rouge_, Alfred F. Jones. You're in the employ of a cabaret."

Alfred made a vague noise that might have been an attempt at a word, or, more likely, his dying gurgle, but Matthew took it for what it was – a noise of shock – and laughed some more.

"Come on," he said, finally taking Alfred's suitcase from him and pushing one of the gates open. "Let's go to Francis."

He was being furtive, Alfred realised, as they slunk through another empty corridor. Vaguely, he noted that each corridor was in progressively better condition, but he was more interested in who Matthew was avoiding.

When he asked, Matthew told him to shut his face. "I'm filthy," he added, shouldering a door open. "And she's nearly always in white. If I get her clothes dirty, I'll have Timo and Kat – not to mention Erzsébet – on my ass until they get the next load of cloth."

'She' made an appearance a few moments later, by way of gratuitous shouting.

"Matthew Williams!" The volume alone was enough to make both men cringe, stop, and turn back to face the demon waiting for them. Alfred didn't know the voice, but damn if he didn't recognise the tone. All women knew that tone, and his mother had perfected it twenty-four years ago. "_Where_ do you think you're going? Three weeks you've been gone! Three weeks and four days! Don't think I don't count!"

Whilst Alfred's response was to gape some more, Matthew's was to groan and roll his eyes ceiling-ward. He set Alfred's suitcase down and crossed back along the corridor to where his – what? Sister? Sweetheart? Lover? What was she? Not wife, surely – stood with her hands on her hips, and then it hit him; the girl was German. Normally, Alfred liked to believe himself above such things and not go picking fights where fights weren't due, because German or not, there was no way Alfred would have fought opposite her on the battlefields, but the accent grated on him in a way he never thought possible. To hear it _here_ of all places… A dark part of Alfred took a twisted kind of pleasure in finding a German working as a whore to the French, but the rest of him was too disgusted in himself to really notice. He could almost hear the gun shells in his ears, feel the mud between his toes, taste the blood on his tongue.

Keeping Matthew close enough to claim him as hers whilst at enough of a distance that she didn't run the risk of dirtying the chiffon, lace and cotton scraps she was presumably calling a dress, the German looked at him with a sort of condescension he'd never seen before, but it didn't stop him from returning the look with a filthy one of his own. If she wasn't German, he mused, hating his prejudices but finding himself unable to quell them, she might have been pretty; her hair was so blonde as to be white, pinned and curled delicately, and her eyes were just as delicate, rubies and crimson, blood and fire.

"Now, listen here," she told him abruptly, stomping over to stand toe-to-toe with him, which was all kinds of adorable really, because she barely reached his nose, even in those death-traps disguising themselves as shoes. "I know that look, I've seen it a dozen times before, so I'm going to say this once, and once only. I'm not German, I'm Prussian, and I'm a political refugee because I protested the war. Not for the right reasons, but I protested it all the same. Francis was good enough to take me in, and I owe my life to him. Yes, I'm an albino, so you can quit your staring on _that_ count, and yes, I'm a whore. But no, I don't give a shit on either count so find someone who _does_ before you start mouthing off. Mattie says you're our new writer, which is awesome and all, but you and me? Are we going to have problems working together?"

Alfred opened his mouth to reply, but the gun shells were reverberating around his skull, drowning out her words, the mud between his toes creeping up his legs to ensnare him in the trenches, blood filling his mouth till he could barely breathe for it. He wasn't in the corridor behind the stage of the _Moulin Rouge_ any more, he could smell it, the fetid stench of death and the arid smoke of gunpowder overpowering the perfumes and paints previously stifling the air. It was No Man's Land out there, enemies waiting for him to put a single hair out of line that they might take his head with a single well-aimed rifle round.

"Oh dear," he vaguely heard Matthew say, but it was barely audible over the instructions being bellowed in his ear, the screams of the dying seeping into his skin. "He's one of those. Alright, up we go. Gil, grab his case, would you?"

And he was being moved, carried away from the battle and to somewhere safe, away from the noise, to a place where the prettiest girls fawned over the ugly shapes of shrapnel scarred into his side. Those scars seared, ripples of pain spreading through his body like wildfire, and there were hands on his back, under his knees, the smell of grease and dust and wheat in his nose, and then there was nothing.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

Prepare yourself for lots of inane and oft-anachronistic literary references; the **white rabbit** is of course, _Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass_ by Lewis Carroll, and the **fields in Kansas **are, believe it or not, a reference a) to my love of farm-boys and b) a reference to _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ by L. Frank Baum. Be honest, how many of you knew it was a book?

If you're curious as to why **Matt's a mountain of muscle**, take a look a) at world geography, including a list of countries' sizes, and b) Nanihoo's art on deviantART. It's renewed my love for CanUkr for one thing, but for another, Matt looks gorgeous like that. Also, yes, I am aware I've made the boys taller than they are. Shush.

Fear my knowledge of **Canadian geography**. My atlas is dated to, like, the 80's. How do I know this? It's still labelled as 'the Soviet Union' and 'West Germany'. Yes. I know, right? Also, once upon a time I was able to pronounce Saskatchewan thanks to _Corner Gas_, but I promptly forgot it a few days later.

The **Second** **Battle of Ypres** (April 1915) was a nasty piece of work; the Germans, forced into a concave bend by the British, French and Canadian forces, flung a load of chlorine gas out of their trench into ours. The British and French caved under it and left a four-mile-long hole in the Allied Line. Canada came to the rescue by figuring that if you soaked a rag in urine and held it over your nose and mouth, you weren't affected by the gas. He held the line whilst Britain and France made themselves look like tools.

The **Battle of the Somme **(1 July – 18th November 1916) was another nasty battle. Lots of shit went down, the British and the Canadian corps that was there suffered their worst losses, and then Canada went around the outside, secured a town, kicked the shit out of the Germans and got back to the main front in time of Vimy Ridge. Or so says Wikipedia, since I'm looking for the Canadian part of the War, and the internet is being horrible to me. Canada did, however, get the most amazing reputation after that; quote from Lloyd George, Britain's then-Prime Minister; _"The Canadians played a part of such distinction that thenceforward they were marked out as shock troops; for the remainder of the war they were brought along to head the assault in one great battle after another. Whenever the Germans found the Canadian Corps coming into the line they prepared for the worst."_

The **Battle of Vimy Ridge** (9-12 April, 1917) was the first time all four Canadian divisions in the war fought together. They went and kicked all kinds of hell out of the Germans. They suffered a hell of a lot of causalities, but hey, they won, and the Germans didn't even _try_ to get it back. **REMEMBER THIS.**

The **Battle of Cantigny** (28 May, 1918) was the first major American offensive of WW1. Realistically, Alfred wouldn't have been there, since it was the best of the American troops already stationed in France – the 1st Division – that were given the orders, but hey-ho.

First anachronism not related to literature; construction of the **Maginot Line** didn't begin until 1930, and planning didn't begin until 1928. Let's pretend that Matt can time-travel or something, 'kay?

**The Occupation of the Ruhr** happened in January-August 1923, and consisted of the French and Belgians getting sick of Germany messing them around with reparation payments, so marched their troops into the demilitarised zone and waved their guns around a bit, threatening to shoot everyone if they didn't cough up. The Germans gave them filthy looks and went on a go-slow and eventually the Francophone lot (which the Belgians are, they're half-French, half-German, and ruled, at one point, by the Spanish. GO FIGURE) had to back out. That's an over-simplification of what happened, of course, but that's basically what happened. It's better than my interpretation of _Operation Torch_.

The literal translation of _**Moulin Rouge**_ is 'red mill'. Hence Matthew's nickname for it.

Matthew's **hair **is blatantly the colour of maple syrup. Grade A dark amber, maybe. Or a little lighter. I'm not sure. I don't see him as the same sort of wheat-blond as Alfred. He's darker than that.

Yes, **Timo, **and yes, **Erzsébet**. That's the Finnish and Hungarian versions of the names Himaruya gave them. 'Tino' is not a name. The same goes for 'Toris' and 'Taurys'. None of the others – Gwen aside – have changed. 'Elizabeta' is actually Romanian, and is also the reason I refuse to call Fem!UK 'Elizabeth'. It's just too close. I mean, Christ, Feliks and Feliciano are the same name in Polish and Italian. That's the end of the name lecture, please leave the room quietly and tuck your chairs in, which I bet most of you don't do, do you?

I like to think that **Gil's the jealous sort**. Matthew's too blasé to give a shit.

Don't worry Al, if **Gil's accent** is anything like it is in the English dub, I don't blame you for hating it. I have no idea what they were thinking when they did it. He sounds more German in the Japanese than he does in the English. I mean, really, in the English dub he sounds French the first time we meet him, and then he sounds like the Fox's Biscuit Panda in the Liechtenstein and her Big Brother arc.

If you worked out that Alfred has **PTSD**, congratulations. If you didn't… well, now you know.

**Right, that's all for this chapter I do believe. So I shall see you next chapter then, my lovelies. I hope you enjoyed and all that, and what's that thing-y that we're supposed to do after reading something so mind-boggingly awesome as this (see Silence, I didn't say it was boring this time. Which it… /shot) OH YES. Review, please? I'm refusing to continue this one without reviews, because I have no idea how it's going down. So I need to know. And all that. ANYWAY ONWARDS. Hope you enjoyed, my lovelies! ++Vince++**


	2. Mise En Scène

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, Finland(hinted/Sweden), hinted Ukr-Can, Can/Fem!Pru, China, Sealand, GerTalia, France

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** Angst, America being a prat, language. Slash, the usual. This is a long chapter for me; it's 8 pages, rather than 5. So there's that.

**Chapter Summary: **In which Alfred is taught a lot and becomes one of the family.

**A/N: **ONWARDS. Notes at the end! Enjoy my lovelies!

**Mise**** En Scène**

There were fingers in his hair. Under normal circumstances, he would not find it so odd, but he was not in a normal circumstance! It was anything _but_ a normal circumstance! Matthew might call it a cabaret, but Alfred knew better; it was a burlesque show! A bordello! He was working with_ whores_! Normal circumstances dictated a pretty girl fascinated by the young soldier with wheat-blond hair that smelt of molasses. These circumstances had no precedent, no logical explanation. Part of him was mollified that he hadn't changed all that much; the rest was horrified.

He lay in the quiet for a while, hiding in the darkness of his eyelids and trying to get a handle on the situation, or at least, an explanation of it. But the quiet yielded nothing to him except for the relaxed, measured quiet breaths of at least five people other than his own, the faint music of a faraway stage, the clinking of a spoon in a cup. He could smell flowers and pine, not as heady a scent as the perfumes and paints of the corridor behind the stage, but present all the same. But there was something else as well; leafy, almost. Thick and bitter.

"Al, stop faking, I know you're awake." Matthew, dirty little liar that he was, sounded _amused_.

So Alfred groaned a little and forced himself to open his eyes. He toyed, for a second, with the idea of continuing to feign sleep, but there was a shocked little gasp from above him and the fingers left his hair, so he didn't see much point in continuing.

The quiet took on the form of a dim room; one window was open to the late afternoon light, the far corners of the room lit by dim wall lamps. He was spread out on an old, overstuffed, but giving couch, the cotton soft to the touch, trying to suck him in and swallow him whole to digest him for a thousand years. Matthew stood against the far wall, arms folded and smiling a little. Gil – that was her name, right? – sat on the floor next to him, her legs stretched out before her as she played some kind of card game Alfred had never seen before. She paid him no heed, so he turned his attentions to the rest of the room, which held three people he didn't know. This in itself wasn't a surprise, but he wondered if one of them was Francis, and doubted it.

"Where am I?" he asked, and then hastened to add; "I know I'm in the _Moulin Rouge_, but I mean, where in the building am I? I mean, so I don't get lost or anything."

He blinked hard when his eyes abruptly shifted out of focus, pain creeping behind his eyes. When his hand went to his temple, there was a soft chuckle from one of the newcomers; blond and tiny, dressed in a blue suit with the softest eyes Alfred had ever seen on a male over the age of four.

"You're in the dressing room for the Diamond Dogs, Alfred," he said, and there was a slight tug at his words, as if French was not his first language. Alfred wondered if anyone around here spoke English. "How do you feel? Matthew said you passed out in the corridor behind the stage."

Rubbing at his temple, Alfred thought it over. "She," he started, pointing at where Gil was watching him. 'She' flipped him off. "Was – she was – how should I put it? She was telling me off I guess. I mean, I don't know. But I could hear – it was as if – I thought."

It only made the pain in his head worse, so he felt a rush of gratitude when the tiny blond waved a hand. "It's not important, Alfred," he assured. "Not right now. All that's important it how you feel." He turned his head to a second stranger. "Is the tea ready?"

"I should hope so, it's been stewing long enough."

Oh, Alfred thought with a swallow, feeling a burning in his ears creeping down over his cheeks. He'd thought that was a woman. In his defence, because it seemed he was always required to give one, the second stranger worse his hair long, his clothes loose and traditional for an Orient Alfred had only read about. When he crossed to where Alfred was struggling to right himself, the American noted young features, wide, dark eye, the concerned frown on thin lips, the age hidden in the shadows of his face, and wondered how old he really was.

"Here," the man hummed, handing Alfred a steaming cup full of a dark, ominous liquid. The blond had called it tea; what was there to trust in such a thing? "Traditional Chinese medicine. It'll help with the headache."

"It tastes like someone pissed in beer," Gil added, giving Alfred a filthy little smile, and Alfred knew she'd waited for him to put the cup to his lips before speaking. He almost snorted it up his nose. "But it works a right treat. Does wonders for the after-effects of alcohol too."

"How do you know what it tastes like when someone pisses in beer?" Alfred grumbled.

At the same time, Matthew said, "Don't be rude, Gil."

Alfred ignored them, screwed his face up, and chugged the damnable drink back in one go. He forced himself to swallow, and forced himself not to vomit; Gil had been right, it did taste like urine. All the same, after a few long minutes in which his head swam and he felt curious eyes on him, the pain began to ebb and eventually faded altogether. His eyes, however, remained unfocused.

"I was wearing spectacles," he mumbled after a moment's silence. It sounded vaguely like a question, and he hoped they understood.

Soft fingers – the ones that had been in his hair – touched his wrist, and he startled, turning to look.

"They would have been damaged," came the explanation, and Alfred didn't have the heart to tell her that they already were. They weren't_ meant_ to be rectangular.

"Thank you," he said instead, sliding them on and revelling in the focus it brought. "Let there be sight!"

It got a chuckle, so he leant back on the couch and thought some more about what had brought him to be in the dressing room of the 'Diamond Dogs'. He remembered Gil explaining in no uncertain terms what she thought of his attitude, remembered the vague sensation of being carried – he'd have to thank Matthew for that at some point – and vaguely remembered what he couldn't grasp. The harder he tried to remember noises and tastes on the very edge of what he could recall, the further away they slipped. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, but they wouldn't cooperate, and he couldn't spit them out.

"Do you feel better now? Yao's medicines are brutal, but they do their job."

Alfred glanced across at her and revelled in how pretty she was; her hair was short and a golden, sunshine blonde, but it was pinned in such a way as to allude to length, gathered in a mess at the nape of her neck. With eyes the colour of the sky and a gentle smile to match, Alfred readily admitted she was one of the prettiest things he'd ever seen, and was reminded of his mother in a way that forced him to avert his eyes – to look away and swallow thickly.

Though she wore overalls not too dissimilar to Matthew's – they were probably his, Alfred thought, and wouldn't it be just his luck – the shapelessness of the heavy cotton did nothing to hide her more than ample hourglass figure, and Alfred knew girls back home who would kill to have bre – _hips_ that wide with a waist that small.

"Yes, yes," Matthew dismissed, clearly far too clever for his own good, and clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Kat has the body of a goddess, we all know." He caught himself, and added, all sugar and spice, "And the face of an angel to match."

Kat giggled, her ears going red beneath stray locks of hair, and she averted her eyes from the rest of them. Alfred kind of felt sorry for her; she was absolutely besotted with Matthew, but he'd chosen Gil, who, even now, sat more like a man than a woman, laughing.

Her laugh was kind of nice, Alfred thought, if you were into that kind of thing; dainty and breathy and probably fake. Not the sort of fake laugh one had when it was fuelled by unkindness, but the sort of fake one adopted when a real laugh was unacceptable. Alfred had heard Gil's voice, she had a set of lungs on her, and he wondered what it really sounded it. A moment passed, and then he wondered why he cared.

Something must have happened, because what could make Matthew choose a German albino who could probably pull off androgyny if she took off all of that make-up over of the beauty next to him? She was absolutely adorable in comparison, the sort of girl a mother would be proud of. Alfred supposed it would be very easy to fall in love with her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed after her blush had faded and it was the same startled gasp that had accompanied the vacation of her fingers from his hair. "I'm so rude! I haven't introduced myself; my name's Ekaterina Braginskaya. Call me, call me whatever you like."

Alfred laughed a little and took her hand when she extended it, cupping her fingers so he could kiss her knuckles. Let no one say he didn't have manners. It got him a blush and a giggle, so he straightened, a little triumphant, and turned to the tiny blond.

"My name's Timo Väinämöinen," he said, and grinned toothily when Alfred's jaw dropped a little.

"Yeah," Alfred drawled, getting to his feet to shake Timo's hand. "There's no way I'm pronouncing that any time soon."

"I know," Timo replied, still with that toothy, young grin on his face. "It's why I like it. I like watching people try, and fail. It's why I chose it as a stage name." Alfred must have had confusion written across his face because he added, "I suppose you know Gil's a political refugee, but she's not the only one. Most of us don't use our full real names. Timo _is_ my given name, but Väinämöinen isn't my family name, just as Gil isn't her given name, but Beilschmidt is her family name."

Alfred looked at Gil for a moment. "Surely," he said, "Surely changing Beilschmidt would have been a better idea?"

"No," she replied shortly, and there was something in her voice that he didn't understand. It was defensive, certainly, but it was hurt as well, as if he'd brought a bad memory up.

Weird.

"You know you're horrible, right?" Alfred asked then, turning his attention back to Timo in a desperate attempt to alleviate tension he couldn't identify the source of.

"I know," he replied, and Alfred turned to the last stranger, hovering by the wall-to-wall table at the far edge of the room, at which, presumably, the girls did their hair and make-up.

"Wang Yao," he said, and dipped his head and shoulders into a polite, but not elaborate or excessive bow.

Alfred bowed back, and looked around. "So, uh, when do I meet Francis?"

"I haven't seen him all day," Gil announced to the room at large, but she kept her head down, focusing on picking at a stray thread on the hem of her dress. Matthew put a hand on the back of her neck to stop her. Alfred felt a stab of guilt in the bottom of his stomach, but ignored it. "I went to tell him that soldier-boy over there had shown up, but he wasn't in his office. I went and asked Fell, and he said Francis was going on about going on a walk with Gwen through the park. Something about getting her some white roses or something. I don't know, he was talking a mile a minute."

"He does that," Timo agreed with a little nod, pursing his lips a little. He scratched at his nose for a moment, musing. "I suppose I could take you on a tour of the building, Alfred, if you'd like."

Alfred _would_ like, but he has reservations; what if something else set off the gunfire and the stench of death? What if he found himself unable to pull himself back to safety? What had set it all off before? He couldn't remember, just the smell of perfume and paint, the echo of Gil's voice in his head.

"But what if," he began, and then faltered.

Timo gave him a break and said, "The _Moulin Rouge_ can be overpowering at first. We'll stay out of the corridors as much as we can; the rest of the building has much better ventilation."

Gil laughed a little, barely more than a sigh, and laced her hands into Matthew's, using him as a springboard to swing herself to her feet. "Sound quality's not as good though. I bet you any money that if Roderich's in the hall, he'll be throwing a tantrum over it."

"It will be any money," Timo breezed. "You don't have any of your own that you're willing to spend."

"I'll give you that," Gil shrugged. "Now go on, off you trot. I need to start getting ready."

They went to the door, and then Gil called them to a halt.

"And Timo?" When he looked back, she said, "If you happen to see Francis, tell him I'm not seeing anyone tonight. I…" She shrugged. "Matt's been gone three weeks and I don't want to listen to… Well, just tell him I'm not working tonight. I'll dance and sing and flirt, but I'm not taking money."

The smaller man nodded. "I will do." A beat and then, "Come on, Al."

When they'd reached the far end of the corridor, Alfred blurted out, "Have I really upset her that badly?"

Timo snorted with laughter. "No," he assured. "She's temperamental at best. But, I don't know what really happened to her to land her here. I know she protested the war, and that something happened to her family – Ludwig's all she's got left, and he's here too – keeping the peace, believe it or not – but as to what it was, I don't know."

"Oh, right." For a moment, Alfred was silent, thanking Timo when he held a door open to let the American pass through first. "What did you mean? About the money?"

Timo hummed in question, and then gathered his thoughts. "Oh, it's well-known she's hoarding her money – her pay, tips, sales, winnings, you name it. We're not sure why – we don't know why she does anything, she's absolutely insane – but Francis has been hinting for a while now that she's going to be leaving us soon. I think she's going to go back to Canada with Matthew."

Good, Alfred couldn't help but think. It meant she'd be out of his hair, which implied he'd be here for longer than it took to write the _Moulin Rouge_ a winning show.

As if.

Timo led Alfred out to the main hall and proved himself right; it was better ventilated here. It smelt of soap and a little bit of alcohol, but there was a lingering smell of tomatoes, and beneath it all, the faintest smell of white rose. Alfred got the feeling as he breathed it in in one breath and missed it in the next that he almost missed the smell entirely. The main hall was large; easily one hundred feet square, with a high, arched ceiling and pillars lining the walls, a highly-polished, dark wood flooring, the walls painted a dark red that reminded Alfred of wine the way orange reminded him of carrots.

It was a pretty enough place, he supposed, attention caught by a mural painted on the section of wall between two pillars, for a brothel anyway.

"_This_," Timo was saying, "Is the _Moulin Rouge_. This hall. Everything about this place comes together in these four walls, regardless of what other… activities our girls take up."

A young boy approached them then, clearly having waited for the smaller male to stop speaking. It took Alfred a moment to realise what was so significant about the way he was dressed besides the fact it was cute and reminded him of a sailor.

"Timo," the boy whined, throwing himself at the man and burying his face in an unsuspecting stomach. "Gwen's being _mean_ again."

"Is she really?" Timo asked, droll. He shook his head, eyes to the ceiling, but Alfred could see genuine love in his smile and in his hands as he hugged the boy close. "Why's she being mean, Peter?"

"She won't let me go out tonight."

"I'm not surprised," Timo told him, and there was a note of agreement in his voice. "It's dangerous out on the streets on any night, especially tonight." Peter opened his mouth to protest, but Timo cut across him with a sharp, "Peter Kirkland, you will do as you're told."

Peter seemed to be fighting an urge to shout, and finally nodded. It was impressive; Alfred had never had that control as a preteen. "Fine," he grumbled. "What do you want me to do instead?"

Timo thought about it. "Stay in our room," he said. "Your sister has a lot of work to do tonight."

"She always has work to do," Peter whispered, and there was something like genuine hurt in there. Alfred thought it was kind of bad of a sister to leave her little brother alone, and even worse that she'd brought him here in the first place. "She never has time for me anymore."

"I'll talk to Francis," Timo promised. "Go find Berwald and see if there's anything he wants you to do, and if not, go take Kukkamuna for a walk."

"Timo," Peter whined, "That's such a stupid name for a dog."

"Well I voted for 'Go for it, Bomber!' but Berwald gave me one of his Looks and told me to be sensible or we weren't keeping her."

"Well, I said 'cheese castle'," Peter told him. "But Berwald said he'd name her later. He wants to make his mind up."

Timo shrugged. "He's stopped calling me his wife, so that's something. Now get a move on. Oh, wait a second. Pete, this is Alfred, he's going to be writing a story."

"What?" Peter asked, wheeling round to crane his neck up at where Alfred hovered, still fascinated with the mural, but looking at the tiny boy. "Really? You're getting me and that jerk out of here?"

"Peter!" Timo chided, amused, but stern. "Don't call your sister a jerk, she's doing the best she can with what she's got."

Peter grumbled something under his breath, and Timo raised a warning hand.

"Alright, alright," Peter yelped, backing out of arm's reach. Alfred got the impression that Timo would never _actually_ hit him, but the threat of it was enough. He could still feel the sting of his father's hand on the back of his head. "You better write a good story," he told Alfred, and then dashed off through the doors they'd entered through.

"That boy," Timo sighed, shaking his head. "I think he gets it from his sister. She's even worse. Not that I blame of her, of course, she's had it hard, but he's so unmanageable at times. The number of times we've put him in a box just to get peace."

"Isn't that cruel?"

"It's hilarious."

Alfred frowned at him, but imagined it was probably was. He wasn't one to judge, really, after what he'd done to his younger cousins.

"I'll take your word for it."

"You're fascinated by that mural, aren't you?" Timo asked after a moment. "You can't take your eyes off it."

"It's amazing," Alfred agreed.

And it was. It was a painting of several young women painted as angels, and Alfred thought he could recognise Gil among them. They were all being exceedingly indecent for angels, but considering it was in a brothel, this was to be expected, he supposed. All of the colours were muted, yet clear, bright and loud, and yet, there was softness in the curve of their bodies, fluidity in the folds of their dresses. It looked so lifelike, and so detailed. It must have taken weeks.

"Who painted it?" he asked.

"He's sat over there. Why don't you go say hello?"

Alfred turned, and wasn't sure what he was expecting. An older man, perhaps, with a squint and laughter lines. The ball of energy, the expanse of olive skin and bright, dark eyes was not it, whatever it was. His hair was auburn, red in the light, almost black out of it, and he was playing with an errant curl that must have escaped the cut, trying to get it to lie flat, though it wouldn't have it. He smiled when he caught Alfred looking at him, all shiny teeth and dimples.

Timo spared him a glance, one eye still on Alfred – gauging his reactions, probably, seeing if he could identify a trigger. There wasn't one with this guy, Alfred thought, nothing would set off a memory. He was too bright, too happy and free for that.

"Hello!" he called as Alfred approached. "Are you our new writer? Gil said we had a new writer when she came looking for Francis."

It was a bright little voice, and accented just as brightly with the vibrancy and life of Italy itself. It seemed nobody who worked here was French. Were the population themselves French? It was an interesting thought, Alfred decided, but shoved it away to be mused over later.

"That's me," Alfred grinned back. He put a hand out. "Alfred F. Jones."

"Feliciano Vargas!" the other greeted, gripping Alfred's hand with a belied strength. His skin was warm, soft but for old paint stains and wear on the edges of his fingers. "It's so good to meet you, Alfred!"

"It's good to meet you, too." He looked over his shoulder at the mural. "Did you paint that?"

"I did. It took me two weeks, on and off. Britannia's horrible to paint! She doesn't sit still, so I had to sneak sketches and colour swatches when she was reading. Gil offered to pose for me, but they have completely different body shapes. Marie's closer, but Britannia's legs are just so _long_, you know? She's tiny, but she's _long_."

Alfred marvelled at the effortless gush of his words, the way he didn't falter, the way every word was given the same importance as the next.

"He does that," came a voice from behind him as Feliciano continued on in the same vein, talking about skin tones and posing and how frustrating it was that Britannia wouldn't sit still, but Alfred wasn't listening. "It's best to just let him get on with it."

"You must be Ludwig," Alfred said, turning.

Tall and broad, blond and blue and pale, severe and angular and looking suspicious, the man nodded. "I am. I assume my cousin has been talking."

"No," Alfred replied, shaking his head, vaguely aware of Feliciano falling silent. "Timo told me. Alfred." He extended a hand.

The other took it in a vice-like grip. "Ludwig."

"Ludo!"

Even as Ludwig opened his arms to accept the ball of Italian energy barrelling into them, he rolled his eyes and huffed out a gruff, "Don't call me that."

Feliciano just laughed and kissed him. Alfred glanced away.

Ludwig took a few moments to disentangle himself from Feliciano's enthusiastic cuddling and eventually managed to look Alfred in the face.

"I spoke with my cousin," he said, and Alfred frowned. "She's told me about what happened when you arrived. I want you to know; I didn't take up arms during the War. I was the only of our family not to do so, and I spent the duration of it keeping her from getting killed. We are not enemies, Alfred."

The hall disappeared, the world fell silent, it was just cobalt meeting sapphire and silently, they measured each other's mettle, readied for a fight that might come, might not surface but might lurk beneath it, naphtha on a moat at night. Ludwig was stoic, but there was sincerity in the crease of his eyes, in the way he smiled without moving a muscle from his frown.

"Alright," Alfred said, his voice quiet and shaking. He swallowed, shook his head and said, clearer, firmer, "Alright."

And the Hall came rushing back, noise flooding in with the kind of hesitant relief that always came with a tender situation. The balance, Alfred mused, had very nearly been upset. Alfred was new, but it had taken months to get any form of recognition, let alone a writer. Who, to the _Moulin Rouge_, was more expendable?

Timo reappeared at Alfred's side a few moments later, and said, "You need to get dressed."

"What?" Alfred asked. "I am, aren't I?"

It had garnered Feliciano's attention, which had been focused on something in Ludwig's pocket. "Oh, of course! The show! It's fancy dress! Ludo, don't forget!" He turned to Timo, ignored the groaned _don't call me that_ and grinned. "Matthew isn't going to wear his coat, is he?"

"No," Timo agreed. "He said it was tight on the shoulders, but I don't think he'll be coming to the show tonight." He grinned and measured Alfred's shoulders with his hands, even when the American stepped away with a look of shock. "He'd fit. He's slimmer than Matthew. Did you finish painting that mask?"

Feliciano nodded. "It's with the coat."

"What?" Alfred asked, completely lost, and even a little bit worried.

"It's Halloween!" Feliciano told him. "So the show's especially themed tonight! Oh, I love the Diamond Dogs' costumes! Britannia has bats on her shoes! _Bats_! She's so pretty in blue. She looks better in red, but that comes later."

"Feliciano!" Ludwig and Timo both barked.

He gasped and slapped a hand to his mouth, eyes wide. "Whoops," came from between his fingers, but he shot a grin and a wink at Alfred, who grinned back, inexplicable, even to himself.

"Has Yao looked at him?" Ludwig asked.

"He did what he could," Timo said with an idle shrug, glancing between them as if to gauge what Ludwig knew.

"Eh?"

"It is business rule," another new voice came from the doors, and really, Alfred thought he shouldn't be surprised by it, because he had only met eight people thus far, including Peter, who couldn't possibly have a working role within the business, and there were clearly more women, so why did it surprise him? "To examine any and all who set foot through the gates of the _Moulin Rouge_ for signs of infection, whether sexual or otherwise."

Thank God, Alfred thought as he wheeled to look without really registering the words, someone who actually speaks French naturally.

He stood leaning against the door with his left hip and shoulder against the frame, arms and ankles crossed. He wore his hair long, like Matthew's (or was it Matthew taking the style, because he was obviously the younger of the two) but it was a lighter blond, the colour as close to honey as Alfred thought possible, casually tousled and framing a mature, serious face. He needed a shave, but didn't they all? He was dressed in a stylish, if not out-dated, sky blue coat with matching shirt and trousers, and the white cravat around his neck was impeccable. But the fanciness of his outfit or the casual way he raked Alfred with searing blue eyes wasn't what caught his attention.

It was the white rose held idly against his cheek with his right hand.

"Good afternoon, Alfred," he smiled, silky and oozing charm as he straightened and crossed the room. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy."

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

This is how sappy I am; one of the national symbols of the Ukraine is the _**Viburnum **__**Opulus**_ (or Guelder Rose, Water Elder, European Cranberry bush, Cramp Bark, Snowball Tree depending on where you come from) and is known as **Kalyna** to Kat's people. In East Central Alberta, Canada, there's an eco-museum called **Kalyna**** Country**_**. **_See where I'm going with this? I think they're cute, lemme be. Because apparently I'm not that clever; Matt bought her perfume with Kalyna and pine in it.

Al, have you been watching_**Star Wars**_**?** Because I swear that's what the sand worm on Tatooine does, not _Pinocchio's _Dogfish like I was thinking of. I should know better than to write at three in the morning.

Go on; admit it, who thought it was **UK with the tea?**

**Let there be light** is one of God's more famous lines, I think.

Whilst I thought **Matt was in the sort of overalls** a mechanic might wear – i.e. a boilersuit – according to Wikipedia, overalls are dungarees. I'm not complaining; it's what Kat wears canonly, after all.

Oh God, I now can't the image of Matt being a MANLY MAN in a pair of dungarees out of my head. OH GOD DAD STOP LISTENING TO _YMCA _TO WIND ME UP. MY EYES. I CANNOT UNSEE IT.

I like to think Kat's the kind of girl who's grown used to all sorts of passes being made and insults being hurled that **coming across a gentleman reduces her to a blubbering mess**.

**Väinämöinen**is easier to pronounce than it is to spell, actually, Alfred.

**Fell = Feliciano**. Just to clear that up.

This is an interesting little fact I found out whilst researching what was going on in 1920's France: According to Wikipedia, **Sarah Bernhardt, died in 1923**. If you're as much of a nerd as I am, or have just paid close attention to the film, she's the actress Satine refers to whilst she's being squeezed into that gorgeous red dress to meet the Duke.

**A note on ages**: I've had to **bump them up a little**. If Alfred/Matt were nineteen now, they'd have been 14 when the war ended. So there's no way they'd have served. So they were nineteen in 1918 – UK was 23, France 27 and so on. Add five years to canon ages where given and you've got how old they are. If not, ehhh, most of them are in their 20's.

**Kukkamuna**** = Finnish version of ****Hanatomago****.**

**Dambolis **ftw**.** I remember really weird things from this fandom that I don't remember learning.

A note on **Ludo**; The Latin form of Ludwig is 'Ludovico' or 'Ludovicus' which is still in use by the Italians, and by extension, so is the diminutive. I know the common nickname for Ludwig is 'Lutz', but it's the German diminutive, why would Feliciano be using it? (The Italian version of the name is _Lodovico_, but I stuck with the Latin, it's cooler).

**Naphtha on a moat** is an anachronistic literary reference; in David Eddings' series _The Tamuli_, the Pandion Knights pour naphtha on a moat whilst holding celebrations. When the castle is then invaded, they set it alight.

**FRANCE I LOVE YOUUUUUUUUUUUU. **He's wearing his traditional costume, just so you know.

**And that's all for this chapter, my lovelies! I hope you've enjoyed! ++Vince++**


	3. VoulezVous Coucher Avec Moi, Ce Soir?

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, France, China, Italy Veneciano, Britain. Mentioned: Canada(/Prussia), Switzerland, Timo, Austria(/Hugary), Belarus. Surprise guest cameos: see if you can guess.

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** Not a lot. A bit of swearing. France being France. My brain.

**Chapter Summary: **In which Alfred sees an angel, and falls into the clutches of a demon.

**A/N: ** At this point, I ran out of terminology to use to make myself look clever. I have terminology for later chapters, just not this one. I'm not a media student. Also, apparently, 'Syntagm' does not mean what I was told it meant, to which I say; fuck. So instead we get an infamous line from an infamous song. Apologies about that. And apologies for my French, I googled the lyrics. Whatever. ONWARDS. Notes at the end! Enjoy my lovelies!

**Voulez-vous Coucher Avec Moi, Ce Soir?**

"It's kind of ironic, don't you think?" Alfred slurred as Yao, frowning with stupidly oversized spectacles balanced on his nose, shoved a stick of wood in his mouth, pinning his tongue. "That the cleanest place in Paris – _France_, even – is a _brothel_."

"We all do what we must," Yao replied, humming as he pulled away. He fussed with his equipment for a moment, organising and tidying, and then he said, "You're clean. Almost too clean. If I didn't think better of it, I'd say you were a virgin."

Alfred flushed, embarrassment staining his ears, cheeks and neck red, averted his gaze to a pattern on the carpet, and mumbled something about waiting for the right girl. Francis, sat at his desk, looked up at him from under stray locks of hair fallen free from their ribbon.

"Chastity, really? We'll have to do something about that if you're to stay here."

Embarrassment turned to indignation, turned to anger, and Alfred glared across the room at him. "I'm fine the way I am," he said. "You're in no position to change me." He paused and then added, "Besides, who said I'm staying here?"

"The nearest hotel charges extortionate prices for subpar rooms," Francis replied with a wave of his hand, turning his attention back to his documents. "Though it could surely do with the business, why pay when you could stay here for free? And I would not dream of changing you, Alfred, kitten, you're perfectly lovey as you are. I merely meant that that sort of view will only excite the girls into behaving in a much more silly manner than they usually do, and you, being of such an opinion, will only encourage them further."

"As if they need a reason," Yao scoffed. He picked up his bag and took his leave, the door falling shut quietly behind him.

Francis made a vague, rude gesture in the door's general direction, and silence reigned for several minutes, until he'd finished with the papers. In that time, Alfred had seriously considered fleeing back to the relative safety of the dressing room, even if Gil had spewed some bile about 'getting ready' and Matthew had been grinning, so that probably wasn't the wisest of options. Alfred made a mental note to punch the Canadian at the first reasonable opportunity. Besides which, his mother had raised him better than to take his leave without mentioning it. He was not a coward; he'd survived the Great War, so surely, surely he could face up to Francis.

"So, Alfred," Francis began, capping his pen and pressing his fingertips into a steeple.

"Francis." His throat was tight, and the word came out strangled.

"What do you think of the English?"

"What kind of question is that?" Alfred squawked in retort, but he told the older man anyway. The English, he said, were a snooty bunch, all up in their own hot air and obsessed with their teas and their scones and their bad weather. Musingly, he added that they were good at what they did, but they had a habit of doing the things they weren't so good at.

Francis smiled. "I'll agree with you on the tea front, and on their misguided endeavours. However, I wouldn't say that they are particularly snooty. My experience of the English has tended to yield anger and pain, but humility and cynicism are very much their forte. Arrogant, yes, but sad, too. You'll see, soon enough."

Alfred thought about it for a while, and eventually returned to safe territory. "What were Timo and Feliciano on about; with the show, I mean."

"This is a cabaret, Alfred, we do not merely whore the girls out without preamble. They like performing, so I give them the chance to perform – we are more known for that than we are our courtesans." He paused. "Well, perhaps they are of a similar renown," he amended. "The performance tonight is for All Hallows Eve, and as such, the costumes are appropriate. Themed nights always require appropriate attire."

Alfred groaned a little, low in his throat as he sank deeper into the upholstery of his chair. "You're joking, right?"

Francis just smiled, shuffled his papers, and raised an expectant eyebrow.

"Oh, Christ," Alfred continued to groan, sinking so low in the chair he was almost on the floor. "You're not joking. Why do I have to dress up? I don't want to go out there. I don't _need_ to go out there. I can lurk in the background. I can be a technician. I only have to write."

But Francis only said, "Sit up before you hurt yourself. I have work for you yet."

"I'm going to die in a cruel and dramatic fashion," Alfred told him, shimmying upright. "And I'm going to stay here and haunt you until _you_ die. And I'm going to die in such a way your reputation will be _ruined_."

"I own a house where I sell sex," Francis said, clearly not caring, and Alfred kind of wondered if he was related to Matthew, and made a note to punch him twice, because he obviously couldn't punch his boss, however loose the term might be used. "What makes you think I care about my reputation? Just because one man died whilst in the house does not make me a murderer. I only have to hide your body and tell any enquirers that you made the mistake of crossing Zwingli. I'm sure he won't mind being credited with your demise if it means people leave him alone. I really ought to give him a raise, actually. He does his job well. I suspect you'll come across him soon enough."

"Right. Okay. Fine. So. Uh. This party, show, thing? What are you planning on doing to me?"

"You make it sound like I'm going to strip you naked and make you dance." Another searing look was raked down Alfred's spread-eagled body, and then Francis shrugged. "It's a good idea, though, I'll have to remember it. Oh, kitten, don't give me that look, I'd never actually do it. I'm not _that_ cruel. It's unhygienic for one thing. But! No, what I have planned for you is more subtle. Come, I'll show you."

He led Alfred down a corridor and up a flight of stairs, and Alfred liked the smell of these corridors; like fresh air and white roses on the very edge of his senses. Feliciano had apparently been given free reign up here, because every inch of every wall was covered in sketches and half-finished paintings, the very walls themselves the canvas. Clouds and angels and couples dancing in the nothingness of dreams and a laughing moon. It was effortless, the figures and the poses and odd dab of paint, and Alfred wondered if he would ever have the same mastery over words that the tiny little Italian did over colour.

"Peace baby?" Francis asked abruptly halfway down one corridor, a paper bag in his hand.

"You what?" Alfred gaped, frowning at the bag, and then at the Frenchman himself.

He shrugged. "English sweet," he said. "Slightly hard on the outside, soft on the inside, covered in sugar. They're quite nice. I'd suggest a red one."

Cautiously, Alfred took one of the supposed sweets, pausing for a second to wonder if it was a trick, and if Francis would trap his hand once he'd put it in the bag, but no, the Frenchman merely smiled at him, blue eyes soft and so impossibly blue, clear like water and looking even a little bit blind. He popped the sweet in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.

"Shit, that's strong."

Francis laughed delightfully, and shouldered his way into a room. "They are nice, though, don't you think? I'm thinking of promoting them here. Such a quaint idea. Peace babies."

He chuckled some more, and crossed to the window to open it and aerate the room. It was a pleasant little room, Alfred supposed, the walls a plain, natural colour, brought to a sheen. A mirror hung on the wall, large enough that standing at the other end of the room would probably show him his whole body. A geometric patterned rug, a small double bed beneath the window, a desk and dresser, dark wood and solid, a comfortable chair at the desk, positioned for easy seating, worn and faded, but plush and homely. Decorative lighting. Little in the way of character. It was as if –

"Is that my suitcase?" Alfred asked, crossing to where the leather case rested inside the cracked door of the dresser.

"Yes," Francis replied, leaning against the window frame and looking out over the view. "This will be your room. You are free to decorate it as you will. I'm sure if you ask Feliciano nicely, he'll help you."

Alfred, crouched in front of his suitcase and checking the lock was still in place, frowned and looked up at the honey blond. "You say that as though I'm staying."

"Aren't you?" Francis asked, and abruptly leaned out of the window. "Get off the lawn!" he bellowed, and Alfred flinched at the volume. How did these people get to be so loud? "I'll set Zwingli on you!"

Muffled shouting from outside made Francis scowl.

"Peter!" he warned, not dropping the volume in the least. "I'll set your _sister_ on you!"

A dead silence fell and, triumphant, Francis pulled himself from the window and dusted his hands. Alfred gaped at him, still on the floor, and suddenly feeling like a little boy.

"My apologies," Francis sighed. "He's troublesome. Timo's puppy only exasperates matters."

"Right."

"Anyway, enough of that. Come see." And he gestured at the bed.

Hauling himself to his feet, Alfred went to look.

"It's a coat," he said, a little unnecessarily, because what else would it be? And then, because it needed to be said, he added, "It's an orange coat."

Francis laughed some more. "That it is, that it is. Get that jacket off, let's see if it fits."

"You want me to wear an orange coat."

"Yes. Please don't be difficult, Alfred, I've already had to give the chainsaw up. Apparently, it's _dangerous_. I told them you wouldn't be stupid enough to use it, but the girls refuse to go on stage knowing there's a working weapon out there."

Alfred stared at him. Francis ignored the look, and held the coat up expectantly.

It fit pretty well, Alfred supposed, reaching his ankles and comfortably ending at his wrists. It was deliberately faded and stained, tattered at the ends and stained green up to his thighs. A green star was sewn onto the right arm, and all in all, wasn't as offensive on as it had looked on the bed.

"There is a suit to accompany it, along with boots, gloves, and a mask. But first, bathe, and I'll get Timo to scrub your hair properly. There's dust in it."

Alfred, in the process of pulling the coat off, gaped. As if dropping his trousers in front of two complete strangers to be prodded and poked (and commented on, because such, his father said, was the French way. It was also apparently the Chinese way, but Alfred supposed this was neither here nor there) wasn't embarrassing enough, Francis wanted him to be _naked_ around strangers? No. No way.

"Oh, don't give me that look, I'll get him to wash your hair _after_ you've finished bathing. I'm not a complete idiot, Alfred. You Americans and your Puritanical nonsense. You're almost as bad as the British."

Alfred's open mouth set itself into a frown. "Francis, don't be horrible."

The Frenchman laughed again, and gestured for him to follow him a little further down the corridor.

"We haven't quite got the money for what we want, but this will do, I believe. I mean, Matthew is the only other lodger in this part, and he is _never_ up here. Well, if he is, I've never heard anything about it, so I assume he's not. Either way, I doubt there will be much clamour for the toilet first thing in the morning. Just, don't make too much of a mess, please. I'll send Timo up in forty minutes."

"Oh, okay. Thanks, I think. I, uh."

Francis smiled, touched Alfred's wrist with one hand, his jaw with the other. "Alfred, kitten, don't fret so much. You'll be okay in the end. Besides, you've got the family looking out for you now, and we all take care of our own."

"I don't understand."

"You will, in time. For now, bathe, and get ready for the show. I promise you, you'll enjoy it."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Alfred alone in a lavish, entirely excessive, bathroom to muse on an incomplete story.

* * *

><p>"Alfred!" Feliciano chided, reaching up to tug his mask straight again. "Stop putting it on the side of your head, it looks silly!"<p>

"I can't see!" Alfred complained, and proved his point by staggering into a pretty little blonde girl with pigtails dressed as a doll, complete with puppeteer strings. He apologised profusely, and she smiled – at least, he thought she smiled – at him, accepting his apology before moving on. "How can I do anything if I can't _see_?"

"Oh, fine," Feliciano told him. "You can shift it whilst we find our seats, but you _must_ put it back on when we've sat down."

"What's the point in that?"

"You'll see."

It seemed to be a trait of anyone in the _Moulin Rouge_ to be as deliberately mysterious and frustrating as possible, and Alfred supposed they were privy to something he wasn't, which kind of made sense, because he was new. He prayed to a God he didn't really believe in that he wasn't about to die of embarrassment.

He wasn't, thankfully. He was about to die of shock.

After they'd settled in their seats, a cute blonde girl – _everyone_ was blonde, it was official, _everybody_, and Alfred wondered if Francis was doing it on purpose – in the smallest green dress he'd ever seen with matching ribbons in her hair came to serve them drinks that were equally as green.

"Absinthe," she said, when Alfred asked her what it was.

He put the glass back on the tray, thanking her, but declining.

"Wow," she said, smiling like a cat that had got her green little paws on the cream. "You're a brave one. I'll get you something non-alcoholic. It should be fun to watch."

"Alright," he blurted the moment she'd vanished. "What the hell do you guys know that I don't?"

He was met with too-innocent smiles, and a piteous little look from Ludwig. He was in no position to give pity, he had dog ears in his hair, and, despite Feliciano's best attempts to get him to wear the paws that went with it, had the tail strapped to his belt. Alfred, in comparison, looked relatively sensible.

There was chatter up to Alfred's eyeballs, so loud that he could barely hear himself think, and he almost wished he hadn't turned that glass of absinthe down, if just to have a reason to drown the noise out. But for all the commotion and fussing everybody he'd met thus far – and for all the itching in his scalp since Timo had scrubbed it raw, complaining all the way about how Alfred really ought to take better care of it – he supposed something big must be happening, and he'd rather remember it.

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell across the hall, so silent as to hear a pin drop. Nobody breathed. A light whirled, centred on the stage, and Francis stepped through the curtains, dressed in a white coat trimmed in blue with matching shirt, knee-breeches and hose. He spread his arms, grinned out at them, bowed a little.

"Ladies, gentlemen, boys, girls and puppy dogs! The _Moulin Rouge_ is proud to present; _The Diamond Dogs_!"

And Francis disappeared backwards through the curtain, and four young women took his place. One of them was Gil, dressed in black and white with rabbit ears in her hair and Alfred could almost hear Matthew's grin from beside him. To Gil's left was a brunette girl in a red dress, white crosses on her stockings, a nurse's hat and devil horns in her hair. Alfred had seen the musician – a doctor, he thought, though he hadn't seen him too well – and presumed she was his wife. He'd heard the stories, though, so it didn't seem too much of a stretch. At the far right was a blonde girl with the palest blond hair Alfred had ever seen, a striped ribbon on her parting, with a matching striped corset and skirt and purple stockings.

But _oh_, it was the woman to Gil's right that caught his attention. Caught it, held it, and refused to let it go.

Golden brown hair, tousled to the point of being mussed from sleep – sleep, or sex? – not tamed in the least by a tiny blue top hat. A blue corset, pulling her waist so tight Alfred thought he might be able to touch fingertip-to-fingertip and thumb-to-thumb around it. Black and cream striped knickers under straps holding white stockings up. Black shoes, and he squinted – Feliciano was right, there were bats on them.

"Don't be scared," the girl in blue announced, hands on her hips as she stepped down onto the floor, her voice low and breathy, but loud enough to carry across the dead silence in the hall. The blue feathered bustle hanging from the back of the corset and reaching her knees swayed with her steps. "I've done this before."

Alfred didn't dare breathe, and neither did any other red-blooded man in the building, though he suspected his lungs had packed up and gone on vacation because of an entirely different reason.

She spread her arms invitingly, the black gloves making her fingers impossibly long, the black and cream stripes of her armlets extending the lines of her arms, Her smile was inviting and deadly all at once. Alfred wondered, later, whether she had fake teeth glued to her own for effect.

"_Show me your teeth_."

She was English.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

Yes, I am **forgoing China's speech tic. **It annoys me.

**Bashing my own country**? _Never_. /sarcasm.

Because I need an obligatory _Doctor Who _reference, have a **jelly baby**, which, until 1953, were known as Peace Babies. Whether or not France would have some, I don't know. It's plausible, since they were made in Sheffield by Bassetts in 1918, and yanno, Britain's kicking around doing her thing.

Do I really need to explain **the costumes**? Really? Halloween 2010. They're so adorable.

Oh, and the **comments France and China apparently make**? The reason for it will become apparent a little later on. I don't want to ruin an awkward conversation. It's got nothing to do with his, ah, _big talent_.

The **quoting at the end**? That's Lady GaGa's _Teeth_. Watch the Hillywood Show's Vampire Diaries parody. Somehow I've mixed the two and produced utter garbage.

**That's all for today, my lovelies! I'll see you in the next chapter, and remember, reviews make me so happy you have no idea. Seriously. They're like drugs. I don't know, I'm tired. ++Vince++**


	4. With Such a Perfect Grace

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, Britain, Lithuania Switzerland, Canada(/Prussia), Italy Veneciano(/Germany). Mentioned: Italy Romano, Finland, France, Poland, Russia, Belarus.

**Rating: **K

**Warnings:** A bit of swearing and that's about it.

**Chapter Summary: **In which a mistake is made, and the rise begins.

**A/N: ** So I've given up with using terminology for my chapters. I'm returning to what I do best; song lyrics. Also, I'm a dirty little liar, ignore anything I say in _Devil in a Midnight Mass._ It's one AM on a Tuesday morning, I have a lecture in ten hours, what am I doing? Notes at the end! Enjoy my lovelies!

**Suddenly it Moves, With Such a Perfect Grace (Come What May)**

Of course she was English; it didn't take a genius to realise who she was. Hadn't Feliciano – hadn't Timo, Gil, Francis – hadn't they _all_ called her _Britannia_? It stood to reason that she'd be the appropriate nationality for her stage name. It was also obvious that they'd been planning on this, or, if not directly involved, they were making good use of circumstances to mess with his mind.

English. Jesus Christ, she was English.

And her _accent_. The things it did to him, things an accent as stupid as the English one should not do to him – or any man for that matter.

_Christ Almighty_.

He was vaguely aware of the girls singing, of a simple – and highly evocative – dance routine, vaguely aware of Feliciano clapping away at his side, trying to coerce Ludwig into doing the same. The German was ignoring him as best he could, eyes on the crowd. Matthew lounged the other side of Alfred, smug and complacent, and yet Alfred could see a defensive line in his shoulders, an annoyed set to his jaw.

It's what you got when you dated a whore, Alfred supposed, and it occurred to him just as vaguely as he'd noted Matthew beside him, that there'd been rumour of Matthew not even _coming_ to the show.

He was vaguely aware of a lot of things, but everything remained stuck in his peripheral, the importance of such observations lost under the breaking waves of _that accent_.

The girls were dancing around the hall now, chanting the same nine words over and over again as they flitted amongst the crowd, their mantra of _help need a man, now show me your fangs_ accompanied by a teasing squeeze of various fellows' jaws.

And then, _oh God, _and_ then._

Then she did it to Alfred.

She lingered for no longer than it took to say the last five words, but it felt like an eternity, and Alfred noted a lot of things.

One; she smelt of white roses. He could smell it on her wrist as she snagged his jaw, and it lingered long after she'd flitted to the next unsuspecting sap.

Two; her eyes were green. It was a peculiar shade of green, pale and flecked with both darker greens and gold, giving the appearance of sunlight dappled through trees.

Three; She was tiny. Her hand was barely longer than the length of his face from eyebrow to chin. There had to be at least a foot in height between them, and Alfred thought he might be able to pick her up with one hand. Gil was barely bigger, but she was.

Four; She drank tea. Of course she drank tea, she was English, but he could smell it on her breath as she demanded he show her teeth hidden behind his mask. She also had a stupidly full bottom lip, a bottom lip that Alfred kind of, maybe, wanted to nibble.

Five; she was ill. It wasn't the most obvious of illnesses, Alfred reasoned, but he could feel a shake in her grasp, see sweat on her brow that he reckoned wasn't normally there. He chalked it up to a ridiculously tight corset – those things killed you, literally – and the encroaching winter blues.

Six; on the topic of ridiculously tight corsets, she looked _really_ good in blue.

Seven; She was English. Good God she was English.

And then she was gone, and Alfred felt a little bereft for it, and even a little alone, and maybe even a little bit in love, if he believed for a second that such things were possible, and he sincerely doubted it, because love at first sight didn't exist. He was a writer, not an idiot.

A little while later, Alfred finally came back to himself, the last two or three hours a total blur of blue corsets and forest green eyes, and found himself in a swiftly emptying hall. A surly looking fellow approached their table, grabbed Feliciano by the collar of his costume and began dragging him off, cursing him in Italian. The smaller of the two shot Alfred an apologetic look, touched Ludwig's arm with a fond smile, and allowed himself to be dragged off.

Matthew caught Alfred's elbow, and Alfred decided he'd punch him in the morning. "You'll be okay, right?" His eyes were bright, entire body distracted.

Alfred heaved a sigh and nodded, shoving his mask back to the side of his head. "I'll be fine, go, go. I thought you weren't coming, so you didn't _have_ to wait."

"I'm allowed to change my mind," Matthew grumbled, and took a step back, shooting Alfred a sly little smirk. "I'll see you in the morning."

Make that three punches.

And just like that, he was abruptly alone in an empty hall, stood in confetti and fallen streamers in an orange and green coat and Francis had wanted to give him a chainsaw and there was no use denying it anymore; he was working for a cabaret-brothel-burlesque show.

"I can't remember how to get back to my room," he mumbled, and stood there some more.

After perhaps ten minutes of feeling sorry for himself but making no attempt to seek help, instead frowning at his shoes, help found him in the form of a lanky young man around Alfred's age, his costume mostly hidden beneath an apron. From the rolled up sleeves, it looked to be made of the same stuff that blonde girl's had been.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and Alfred didn't know why it surprised him that he wasn't French either.

"I'm fine," Alfred replied with an idle shrug. "Just a little lost."

"Oh, well that won't do will it?" The brunet smiled and extended a hand. "I'm Taurys Laurinaitis."

"Nice to meet you, Taurys. I'm – "

"I – I know who you are," Taurys replied, still smiling, though it looked a little tight. "You've been the talk of the _Moulin Rouge_ for the last few weeks, you see. A good friend of mine, he wouldn't hush since we heard you were coming."

"What?" Alfred gaped. "Really?"

"Of course," Taurys assured him. "You're important to us – the company, I mean – so of course we'd talk about you. I – uh – I'll show you to where you need to be."

It sounded quite ominous really, but Alfred didn't really have much of a say, since Taurys was the only living being in the hall now and had already started leaving. Alfred hastened to follow.

"So, uh, where are you from?" Alfred asked after perhaps three minutes of trekking through empty corridors. "I mean, your accent's heavy."

Taurys smiled that tight smile again. "Lithuania," he said. "I'm from the capital."

"Oh," Alfred said, and tried to remember where Lithuania was on the map. It was by Russia, right? "That's cool. What, uh, what brought you to France? If you don't mind me asking, I mean."

"Oh, not at all!" Taurys hastened to mollify him, as though worried of causing offence. Lithuania, Alfred mused, must be a weird place. "I came here after the war, with a friend of mine. We – we fancied our chances here."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, grinned, and said nothing. Taurys shifted his stride so Alfred wasn't in his eye-line, and the grin dropped immediately from Alfred's face.

"Here," Taurys said after a few minutes of awkward silence. "You see that man there?"

A Swiss Guard, oh God. "Yeah?"

"The door he's guarding, that's where you need to be."

"You're not coming with me?"

"Oh, I'll walk you to the door, but why would I need to go with you?" Taurys' face looked a little horrified, a little disgusted, but mostly confused and awkward, and Alfred wondered if there'd been a mix-up somewhere down the line.

He shrugged. "No reason, I guess."

The brunet tossed his head in a gesture for Alfred to follow, and led him down the last leg of the corridor.

This was not his bedroom.

This was not his corridor.

This was not his wing.

Where the hell was he?

What was going on?

Shit, shit, shit.

"Ah, Vash, hello."

The Swiss Guard looked at them, blond and scowling. He was dressed in forest green, his hand on a rifle slung over on shoulder. There was a second in which Alfred thought he was going to die, and then he decided that _yes_, that gun most definitely worked, after working in close quarters with firearms the way a soldier did, he didn't think he'd ever forget to recognise the signs of a working weapon, but _no_, he wasn't going to get shot with it right now. Maybe later, but not right now.

"Is this him?" No manners, then.

"Yes," Taurys replied, and Alfred bit down on the urge to scream 'I'm right here' and do a jig. "Is she ready to receive him?"

All thoughts of faking Irish heritage died in his brain, along with every other thought process, and he choked on his spit. The other two ignored him.

"Yes," Vash said, nodding once. He said nothing else. He just stood there. Staring. Still. Scowling. Oh God, oh God, oh God, Alfred had never been so uncomfortable in his entire life.

Taurys took his leave and left Alfred stood there awkwardly, fiddling with his fingers and wondering what his parents would think. Vash looked at him and smirked. It was not a pleasant expression.

One knock, two, three, and then he swung the door open and shoved Alfred inside.

It was a large enough room, he supposed, plenty of space to move around, bigger than his room definitely, decorated in deep crimsons and warm creams, with one of the biggest beds he'd ever seen in his life. It was a little old-fashioned, sure, but it was classical, suited the room, suited the girl who sat in a comfortable chair, looking out over the gardens.

Alfred gaped a little, mouth working like a fish as his eyes widened, took her in and felt his throat close, his stomach drop and his heart climb, pounding like a drum, into the tiny space his throat had left. Blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, tied roughly away from a face he'd barely glimpsed on stage, baring the back of her neck in a way Alfred would never have thought of as anything other than young innocence. Of course, it was a thought backed up by the white whatever-it-was she was wearing, giving the literary impression of purity and virginal innocence, but all it did was make a hysterical, ironic laugh bubble in the back of his mouth but not yet spilling off his tongue.

It wasn't like Alfred _knew_ the terminology for women's underwear, he didn't go around asking about it. Whatever it was, it was tight to her figure, like every other costume of the night, pinching her waist until Alfred thought he might be able to touch thumb to thumb and fingertip to fingertip if he dared to try. It was pretty enough from the back, he mused idly, hovering at the door, the laces pulled tight, but the back of the corset was still open, showing equally milky skin, and were those _scars_ down her back? She looked like she'd been _whipped_.

There was a short, lacy voile skirt that attached to it, equally sheer stockings and gloves and frankly menacing-looking heels. Without turning, she straightened a little, sighed a little sigh that might have been happy, might have been pitying and said, in that gorgeous low voice of hers, "Hello, Sir. I've been waiting for you. Lovely view, isn't it? Would you like some tea?"

Alfred, admittedly, reacted better to it than he thought he would; he choked on his own spit in shock as he hurried to correct her. She turned with a sharp look at the gagging noise, and a look of exasperation flitted across her features before it settled into quiet amusement.

"Tea?" she repeated, and crossed to a tray set with a steaming pot with a milk jug, sugar bowl and two cups set neatly onto the metal space.

Alfred gagged a little more, and managed to jerk his head into a nod.

"Please," he gasped.

The expression that crossed her face this time was a little dumbfounded, but again, she schooled it before he got a chance to name the look in her eyes. God, those eyes. They were so green, and he found himself, as she asked him – no less than four times – his preferences for the drink, of which, admittedly, there were none.

When he managed to tell her that he had never tried it before, he thought, for one heart-stopping, utterly ridiculous moment, that she was going to throw the boiling water on him. Instead, something coy and calculating crossed her face, and she smiled with all the innocence of a young girl. A young girl that was about to pull the wings off a dragonfly, but a young girl nonetheless.

"Well," she said, "We'll have to change that, won't we? Do sit down, love."

Alfred sat, perched on the very edge of a large and fanciful bed that he swore hadn't been there a second ago. Crossing the room to him, a cup of tea on a delicate saucer in her hand, Britannia crouched between his spread knees and rested her fingers in the crease of the joints.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Fine," Alfred gasped.

The tea tasted like piss, but he didn't think it was a good idea to mention it.

Britannia frowned. "Positive? You sound awfully bunged up."

"I have no idea what that means."

"You sound more nasal than I imagined. Higher, maybe. As though you've a cold."

"No," he shook his head, careful to keep still. "I'm fine. A little confused, and a little nervous, but fine." He paused and then, "How are you?"

She laughed, and though it was not a particularly bitter laugh, there wasn't much in the way of genuine mirth in there. She was laughing, he thought, for the sake of laughing, and not because he was being funny.

"I'm fine," she replied softly, and tightened her fingers just so, and Alfred squeaked. "So," she began. "I hear you're interested in the show Francis is convinced we're going to stage."

"Yes," Alfred replied, and allowed her to take the tea from his hands and set it aside. He didn't miss the flicker in her eyes when she saw how much was still there – as if he could drink that much in such a short space of time, and that was without the taste – but she said nothing.

He wasn't particularly bothered by the tea, given how she'd climbed up onto his lap, bracing her knees on the edge of the mattress and pushing him, completely unresisting, back onto the sheets with the soft prod of a single finger. She looked down at him from her position above him, and he looked at her. The light fittings cast her blonde hair gold, set shards of chocolate and amber glistening off the stray locks, and it fell in a messy curtain either side of her ears, a halo befitting the portrait Feliciano had painted in the hall.

There were scars on her face, two tiny, tiny little lines on her cheeks, a hair's breadth and raised, from her chin to her ears, almost pulling her lips into a quirk, but not quite. Alfred kind of wanted to touch them, and wondered what caused her to gain them, whether it was the same circumstance as those on her back.

"Do you wish to… discuss it?" she asked.

Could she read minds? Did the British do that? Or could she just read him so very, very easily?

"Discuss what?"

"The show. Surely if you wish to invest on behalf of your new leader, you'd like to know what such a move entails?"

"Invest?" Alfred asked, wondering all the while whether her mouth tasted the same raspberry as her lips. He'd always preferred raspberries. "Why would I invest? I'm writing it!"

She jolted, and braced her hands on the bed either side of his head. "What? No, we're bringing a writer in, so Francis says. From America."

"I _am_ the writer! My name's Alfred, I'm from Kansas!"

In less than a second Britannia was the other side of the room, a hand over her mouth and horror widening her eyes to white rings and forest green iris.

"What?" she whispered from behind that pale, delicately gloved hand. "You're the writer? Not the Soviet Party Official? The accent – I should have known! Ack, who set you up to this? Was it Feliks? Tell me it was Feliks, I've been looking for an excuse to hit him for _weeks_."

"No?" Alfred assured her, though it sounded too much like a question to be of much use as such. "No, he didn't. At least, I don't think so."

Britannia gaped at him some more. "Oh God, then if you're here – where's the Official? Shit, Alfred! The Official! He's going to – oh God, what have you done?"

"Me?" Alfred snapped back, unable to keep the anger down. "Me? I'm not the one who asked for this! I only wanted to get back to my room! You're the one who had to prance around on stage and _grab my face_!"

"I thought you were the Russian Official!" she told him, waspish. "Francis told me to look out for you."

"Because I'm the _writer_! I'm not _important_!"

"Oh, just – Shut up." She cut herself off before she could say anything else, and paced back and forth across the floor in front of the window. Alfred watched the way the bustle on her skirt moved, and wondered why she even had one.

"Why don't I just leave?"

"This early? Francis will be watching, he'll think there's something wrong!"

"And the longer we stand around here hissing at each other, the longer the _Nomenklatura's_ waiting for you! The sooner the leave, the better."

She made an unhandsome noise, and waved a hand at him, but she didn't stop her pacing.

"To think I was going to lie with you."

"Nobody says that anymore," Alfred sniped, and went for the door. He paused, hand on the handle, and turned back. "Oh, by the way."

She finally stopped her pacing and looked at him. "What?"

"I wouldn't have minded," he shrugged, and shut the door on her shock.

Outside, Vash was arguing with a tall, well-muscled gentleman around Alfred's age, maybe a little older, maybe a little younger, it was hard to tell, what with the way his hair cut jaggedly across his brow and a pale scarf hid his jawline.

It was immediately obvious that the new fellow was Russian, and even more obvious why Britannia had confused them. He supposed, in French, to people not used to the nuances, Russian and American accents sounded pretty damn similar.

"Oh," the Official frowned as Alfred appeared over Vash's shoulder. "Britannia had already received a visitor."

"Yes," Vash replied, because there was no point in denying it, though Alfred suspected he'd die before admitting he'd made a mistake.

"And you are?" the Official asked.

"Alfred," the American replied, and stuck out a hand. "Don't worry, man, I'm not stepping on your toes. I was just – eh – introducing myself to our lead girl. I'm the new writer, you see. We hadn't had the _pleasure_ of making each other's acquaintances, you see, and surely you must want to know what the play's about."

The Official looked at his hand, but didn't take it, a look of open disgust on his face. Oh, right, the Russians were Socialists now, weren't they, and the Americans were Capitalist Dogs.

"What is it about?" he asked, as they changed positions and he opened the door.

"Haven't the foggiest," Alfred grinned. "Have fun!"

He turned his back before the Official could make a comment, but the door slammed a second later, so Alfred wondered if he'd even heard.

"For what it's worth," Vash told him after a moment's silence. "I don't like you, I think you're an ass. But for what it's worth, I think you'll be better for her than he will be."

"Right," Alfred replied. "Uh, how do I get to my room? Feliciano painted a picture of a laughing moon on the wall in the corridor outside."

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

For the **anonymous sticky sweet** (I tried looking you up if that is your tag, but this site's search option is a fickle creature and I swear to God it deliberately crashes the system for the lol-factor.) Ahem. The **showgirls** are as follows: Britain, Prussia, Hungary, Belarus, with Belgium as the Green Fairy (hence her green costume and the absinth. Sorry Silence, but I couldn't get her in as a literal fairy, so she's going to be encouraging underage drinking instead) and maybe the other female nations (excluding the very underage Liechtenstein and Seychelles) will also be wandering around. Those four though, are the big ones. They're also the **angels on the wall**. I thought I was being clever with the angel thing. As There Was a Silence has pointed out a few times, I am fond of being vague and non-explanatory.

Alfred, bless him, **misidentifies Vash as a Swiss Guard**. The uniform Vash is wearing is his canon uniform only lacking the insignia and with a slightly different cut to the jacket. If he was wearing his Swiss Guard uniform, he would be the most adorable jester-like force-to-be-reckoned-with I ever did see. Seriously, look those bad boys up and not want to squish their cheeks. /shot

I love **Feliks**, and I have nothing against the Polish, it's just an unfortunate effect of the British that we seem to be racist bastards. Gwen's comment is not a dig at the Polish, it's just a reflection of the British/Polish relations and the fact I needed to pick on somebody.

I don't know if **the accents are similar**, but I don't really care either.

At the **time this is taking place** (October 31st, 1923), Lenin was on his last legs. He died in January of '24, so he wasn't in the best shape. Russia had, by this time, been a Socialist-Communist in-between country since October of 1917, though it wasn't until 1922 that the USSR became known as that. Russia had been through hard times, and I should imagine they were already being indoctrinated in the anti-Capitalist sentiment. I suppose, if Ivan is high enough on the party to be financing brothels with money Russia doesn't have, I should imagine he didn't need much in the way of indoctrination.

On that note; **Nomenklatura** is the term the Soviet used to describe high-ranking officials within the party. I won't be using it much, instead referring to Ivan as the Official. He would have been the Duke, except there were no duchies in Soviet Russia.

(Also, lol, I found a typo that ruined that point, thanks for pointing that out guys, I appreciate it. /sarcasm. I love you really.)

**That's it for this installment, tune in next time for another plotless escapade into a film I don't technically have time to watch! Hope you've enjoyed, my lovelies~!**

**++Vince++**


	5. I'll Top the Bill, I'll Earn the Kill

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, Can/Pru, Britain(f/m), Italy Veneciano. Mentioned: Russia, France, Finland/Sweden, Sealand, Lithuania/Poland

**Rating: **K+

**Warnings:** Trigger warning for the conversation between Gwen and Alfred about the play

**Chapter Summary: **In which an accident happens and a secret is divulged.

**A/N: ** So I was 19 on Saturday (15/10), and I've had a few bad days since. Also, I'm not terribly impressed with this chapter, but from my experience, you do tend to explain why you've reacted when someone makes you react – or at least, when someone's reacted to something I've said, they've explained why. It stands to reason Gwen would too. AHEM. ONWARDS. /capsrage Enjoy my lovelies~!

**I'll Top the Bill, I'll Earn the Kill (The Show Must Go On)**

Morning came, and with it, Alfred felt positively wretched. He longed for his own bed in the too-blue astrological nightmare that was his boyhood bedroom, rather than the too-empty space of his – his _cell_ – in the _Moulin Rouge_. Oh, the room was nice enough, he supposed, and the bed comfortable, but it wasn't home and his sleep was uneasy at bed, leaving him groggy and gritty-eyed.

Matthew, of course, had had a good night, and was offensively chipper, sprawling across the steps next to Alfred, who huddled beneath an oversized cardigan knitted for him by his mother, nursing a chipped mug of cocoa.

"You're in a remarkably good mood," Alfred grumbled, needing something to say, even if it was obvious.

He received a grin in response, and Matthew pointed across the hall at where Gil was – well, doing whatever it was she was doing. "You see that girl there?"

It was hard not to; she was wearing stockings and ballet slippers laced tight with brutal efficiency, but the shirt she wore to accompany it was creased and stained with lipstick on the collar, and Alfred wasn't foolish enough not to recognise it; Matthew's, from the night before.

"Of course."

"Well, you see what she's doing?"

Again; it was obvious. Alfred had been too distracted yesterday to notice, but there were four sturdy steel poles in the corners of the room that ran from floor to ceiling. Gil was currently hung upside down from the pole in the furthest corner, supported by her hand–grip alone. Alfred wasn't sure whether to be impressed.

"Sadly."

"Bro," Matthew said, and the familiarity stung as he grinned lazily, smug and sated and Alfred hated him. "I'm in a relationship with a woman that hangs upside down off a pole for a living. The things she can do."

_You're in a relationship with a woman who sells herself for a living_, Alfred corrected, but had no chance to vocalise the thought.

"Matthew," came the interruption, chiding, low and even despite its amusement. Alfred tried to drown in his chocolate. "Don't be mean. I'm sure our dear writer doesn't need his head filled with sexual exploits – yours least of all."

_She knows_, Alfred thought hastily, frantically, terrified without reason. Why did it matter that he was a virgin? It wasn't like he was going to write sex into the show!

Today, Britannia had opted for a fashionable dress of dusky pink cotton and voile, cream embroidery decorating skirt hem and gathered waistline, hanging from her frame in such a way as to allude to shape without throwing it into relief with bones and scraps of fabric. Her ankles were given a rest with low, matching heels and she had beads on her wrists and loose about her neck, large enough to match, small enough to maintain delicacy. There was a hat atop her head of matching colour with a darker shade providing decoration in the form of a bow, her hair curled and mostly pinned beneath it. Delicate, Alfred thought, catching the faintest tint of make-up upon her face, her scars visible, even in the shadow of her hat-brim, and he almost wanted to reach out, make sure she was real.

He was aware he was staring and he was unable – unwilling, even – to stop.

Dropping elegantly onto the steps to Alfred's right, she took a moment to arrange her skirts before sending him a smug little grin. "I do hope you know what the play is about now. The Official was positively beside himself last night."

Alfred wanted to be sick. "Kindly shut up," he told her. "I want to vomit. And no, I haven't thought about it. I have had _time_ to think about it. I should have something by the end of today – the late afternoon, perhaps, if you give me time to _think_."

Matthew took his leave willingly at that – gratefully, even. Britannia didn't move.

"About last night," she hedged.

"I don't know how you mistook me for the Official," Alfred told her when she paused and looked down to fiddle with her fingers. "We're nothing alike."

Absinthe eyes snapped back up and looked at him, sharp and bitter like the tang of lemons and lime. For a second she watched him, and then her expression softened, and she turned back to her fingers, still now, but trembling. Alfred wanted to wrap her hands in his, warm them, give her security. It was, admittedly, a foolish thought.

"I never dealt with Americans _or_ Russians," she explained, hastily, a touch of colour spreading across her pale cheeks. "I only – I was with the British, French and Canadians, and we had our hands full trying to keep our boys alive long enough to send them home." There must have been a look on his face, for she added, "I was a field nurse during the Great War. I was young, and foolish, and wanted to stay with my husband."

"Husband?" Alfred's voice cracked on the second syllable, but Britannia had more poise than to comment. He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.

She shrugged. "I was eighteen," she said, "And a fool in love. He died in the Somme; most died there. There was nothing that could have been done to save him; his injuries killed him on the field before help even got to him." She pulled a chain from under the neckline of her dress. "I don't wear it during performance, obviously, but they retrieved his ring for me." She turned her eyes to Alfred for a second, and it felt like a physical blow to his sternum, his heart skittering across his ribs. "Arthur would have liked you. You remind me of him; you're brash and tactless and stubborn, but you have kindness in you, too. You'd have been the actions to his thoughts. You are – you're lighter than he was, he was always wrapped up in his head. I can well imagine as he lay dying in that foreign field that his last thought was a coming dread of what I'd do to keep myself and Peter alive. I – I was never the most sensible of the two of us."

She grinned at him, crooked and sad, and Alfred touched his fingertips to the delicate bones in her wrist. She didn't draw away, and his hand settled over hers, twice its size and rougher, stained with ink and the memories of the trenches.

"I wish I could say something," he mumbled.

"Sometimes, nothing is more than enough," she replied, and turned her hand so they rested palm to palm, her fingers slipping between his and curling over his knuckles.

He frowned at the pale skin breaking the broad tan of his own.

"So what's he like?" he decided upon in the end. "The Official."

Britannia blinked, looking out over the stage and making no effort to move their hands, keeping them secure in her lap. "He's nothing like you. He's cold, alone. My first impression is one of a lonely little boy desperate to make friends but only succeeding in scaring the other children."

Alfred remained silent, following her gaze out to where Timo was stood talking to a blond fellow – _again_ with the blonds! – a good half-foot taller than he was, a small bichon frise tucked into his arms. Out to where Matthew was talking to Gil, hanging upside down at such a height her eyes were level with his. Out to where Taurys was arguing quietly in a corner with a – it was hard to tell, really. Out to where Feliciano was eying them in what he must have thought was a surreptitious manner, pencil flying across the sketchbook on his knees.

"Felciano's drawing us," he said.

Britannia nodded once, used her free hand to take her hat off and straighten the pins in her hair. "I know. Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No, I just – what about the Official?"

"What about him? I'm entitled to touch whomsoever I choose, Alfred. He holds no sway over me."

Alfred mulled this over, and softly squeezed his hand about hers when he was done, a silent acceptance.

"So," she said after a few moments of silence. "Any thoughts on the play?"

"You haven't told me your name," he replied. "I mean, I've heard it – of course I have, I'm not stupid and I can put two and two together, but you've never introduced yourself to me."

"Have I not?"

"No."

"Oh." She twisted her hand in his again, holding it as though to shake it. "My name is Guinevere Kirkland. Call me Gwen."

"Alfred Jones," he replied, and shook her hand. She held him like that for a moment, and then returned their hands to their laced-fingers position, this time between them, as opposed to on her lap.

"So, Alfred Jones, you ignored my question. Have you any thoughts on the play?"

"Not one, Gwen," Alfred replied, "Not a single one."

She gave a chuckle and stretched her legs out before her. "Well, I suppose I'd best leave you to it. God forbid you don't think of anything."

Gwen got to her feet and dusted herself off, hat in hand.

"A romance," he blurted, and his ears burnt when she turned to look at him. "I mean, that's popular these days, isn't it?"

"Tragedy is popular these days," Gwen corrected. "_Antigone_ is awfully popular."

Alfred snorted. "Oh, who cares for Greek tragedy? It's so _droll_."

Gwen raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you propose? A woman of money falls in love with a labourer aboard a doomed voyage?"

"How would we fit a cross-continental vessel in here?" Alfred rolled his eyes. "No, something far more subtle. Romeo and Juliet only without the death."

"Boring!" Gwen told him, and sat back down, aware that this could go on for some time. It would, Alfred thought, he was getting more and more ideas as he looked at her.

"Not something so obvious as all that," he assured her. "Obvious _is_ boring. Something – something softer. Best friends," he suggested, looking askance at her as though to ask her opinion.

"Perhaps. Where from?"

"The countryside," he said with a nod. "Where the fields stretch as far as the eye can see. Fields of barley."

"How would we produce that on a stage?"

"Backdrops, I don't know, it's not my business." He was on a roll now. "And they've grown up together, known each other all their lives. He's older than her, but not by much. And that's all well and good, but there are siblings involved – a younger brother or sister of the girl, perhaps. Or maybe _his_ siblings – yes, his younger brother, maybe, most likely, and he's jealous of his relationship with the girl – he's enamoured with her, but she's only got eyes for the older brother. So he spreads rumours, bides his time until he can discredit his brother to the girl.

"It works – of course it works, it might not be sophisticated as a plan, but it's certainly timed right – and the only way for the older brother – the hero – the only way he can make it up to the girl and go back to those fields and try to make things better, the only way he can do it is to leave, join the army, thinking that if he goes through his training, does a tour of whatever hell-hole they're in, that it'll convince her parents that he's back on the straight and narrow that he never left.

"It works perfectly, and he comes home, and she's there, waiting for him, and she's pregnant – or she's had his baby – something involving children, and it's sweet, it's all glorious, but then an announcement comes. The war's started, the whole world is converging on mainland Europe, trying to keep everything down below catastrophe, but it's not working, things are escalating, they need all the hands they can get. So he goes back to the army, he goes to the war, he fights in France and Africa and everywhere else, trying to survive to get back to his girl, but she's come with him, she's joined up as a nurse, or as a spy, or something, she's there, and he doesn't know. But he sees her – thinks it's a mirage, and he tries to make her go home, make her go back to the fields and raise the baby and stay alive, give him a reason to come home.

"She ignores him, goes about her duties, tells him her place is with him. And there's another guy in the company, he's got his eyes on her, and our hero, he can't bear that, knowing what happens when you put a girl in the midst of the army, he can't bear to see that happen to her, and he ends up in an intense rivalry with this other fellow, and it gets out of hand. It suddenly doesn't matter that they're at war, that there're battles everywhere, all that matters is that he keeps this guy off his girl, and he succeeds, he keeps her safe and she doesn't notice a thing, wrapped up in her duties.

"But then the battles come, and it gets dangerous and he can't keep one eye on her any more, and he hates it, but he needs both eyes forwards to survive to keep an eye on her, so he fights and he puts his all into it, and he makes a name for himself as a marksman, as a soldier ready and willing to kill anybody and everybody that doesn't wear his colours. He's injured, seriously so, and he's unconscious, and he wakes up, and she's there, and he's in a hospital back home, and they're alive, and it's alright, he got the guy that was after her – he took the opportunity, whilst he was focused on the war, to make his move, and she's broken for it, and he knew, but there was nothing he could do – and she's alive. That's all he could have asked for."

For a long, horrible moment, there was silence.

And then a tear slid down Gwen's cheek. She didn't cry, she didn't make a noise, just sat there in silence, the lone tear now darkening the voile of her skirt where it landed after falling from her cheek. Alfred gaped at her, breath caught in his throat.

"What did I do?" he asked, voice barely a whisper, lodged.

"When I was a field nurse," she whispered back. "Arthur's Captain took a fancy to me, and with Arthur so focused on the war as he was, he needed both eyes, he was a marksman, they were counting on him, his Captain thought he might take the opportunity to… Well. When I refused to bow to him – I'm not a girl of money, Alfred, I come from back streets in London, and Arthur wasn't much better, but he _was_, he was enough to make me feel like a princess – but whilst I don't have money, I have my morals and my love, and the Captain thought he could bully me to cow to his demands. When I refused? When I refused, he beat me. You have, I presume, seen the scars on my back?" When Alfred nodded, she let out a shaking breath. "He always carried a riding crop with him. From that day on, it was stained with my blood."

"Your face?"

"An accident, when I was younger. My brothers weren't the – they weren't always safe with their games, and I was injured for one. It has nothing to do with the war.

"Once I'd been stitched up and drugged on morphine so as the pain could not impede my work, I told Arthur what had happened, and how I'd threatened to kill the Captain for it, because I can – I could, if I chose. I would have, given half the chance."

"What happened?"

"The Captain turned up on a stretcher two days later, a bullet lodged in his throat. I saw the bullet and I watched him die, and though no one thought to connect the two, I knew."

"Your husband?"

"Of course."

"Oh. Oh, Gwen."

Before he really understood his action or his motivation for doing so, he had swept her into his arms, one hand warm against the cold back of her neck, the other tight about her waist, holding her close and steady as her fingers clutched at his back, dug into the fabric and buried her face in his neck. He couldn't hear a sound from her, but her breath shuddered across his throat, delicate, her chest heaving as she tried to draw oxygen around tears she refused to shed. He rested his cheek in her hair, Gwen having pulled her hat off half a conversation ago.

For several minutes, they sat there, clinging to each other and breathing, and Alfred dreaded to look out over the rest of the hall, which had, he realised, fallen conspicuously silent. Eventually, Gwen pulled herself from his arms, swiped the back of her fingers across her cheekbones, brushed a lock of hair from her eyes, and exhaled.

"I apologise."

"No, no, it's fine," Alfred replied, and shucked the cardigan, holding it out to her. "Here, you'll catch your death."

She smiled a little, the corner of her mouth twitching, before accepting the garment and pulling it on; where it had been big on Alfred, it was positively huge on her, the shoulders almost at her elbows and the bottom hem easily at mid-thigh. It was almost cute, in the way a little girl would wear her big brother's clothes, or a woman would wear her husbands' of a morning. He wondered, as she folded the cuffs back to free her hands, whether she had ever worn Arthur's clothes. He supposed she must have, if she had been as young as she said she was. That made her what, twenty-seven? Older than him, certainly, by at least four years.

"Thank you," she said, glancing up at him. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes red. "I'll get Peter to return it later."

"It's fine," Alfred replied. "Get some use out of it, couldn't do with you getting sick now, could we? Think of what Francis would do!"

"Speaking of," she hummed, "I really ought to speak to him about a matter that came to my attention yesterday. If you'll excuse me."

With a swirl of cable-knit and pink voile, she turned on her heel and vanished out of the hall, her steps bringing the noise back. When she'd gone, Feliciano appeared at Alfred's side, papers in hand.

"Here," he said. "I think it best you kept these. If that Official found them." He shuddered, pushed the sketches into Alfred's slack fingers, and vanished again.

"Wait," Alfred called, and Feliciano stopped, approached again, crouched at Alfred's feet and looked at him.

"What is it?"

"The Official, everyone's been tiptoeing around the subject – Vash, and Gwen, and now you. There's something fishy. What's so bad about him?"

Feliciano frowned, picked at some chalk under one of his nails. "I don't think – Al, understand – he's not – the Official, he's – Al, he's not _normal_, not like us. As normal as we are. They say – he's famous, 'round here. They say he got hurt in the war, that he hasn't been the same since, that the reason he got sent to invest in us is to keep him out of the way of the other Officials in Russia. I mean – we can't say for sure, it's just rumour – but rumour's good – isn't it? More reliable than the news, they say, neighbours are better sources of information than police records. I just – be careful, Alfred, he's got the means to hurt you."

"I'm not scared of him," Alfred assured the smaller Italian. "He's got nothing on me."

"He's got Gwen," Feliciano sighed. "I heard Francis talking – said that – the Official wants to make sure that Gwen doesn't get – she doesn't get _tainted_ – make sure she's fit for Russia. I don't understand exactly but – be careful. You're playing with fire."

"Then it's a good job I'm ice, isn't it?" Alfred replied. "If you'll excuse me, I've had an idea for the play, and I'd like to start writing."

He left the hall, shivering a little at the cool air outside, and for a second, for one single moment, he felt eyes on his neck, as though he was being followed. He turned the corner, and it was gone.

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

I have a thing for **blokes in cardigans**, let me be. Alfred in a cardigan is adorable.

Have I just ruined USUK romancing because of a cock-blocking dead **male!England**? Why yes, yes I have.

Alfred is **ad-libbing the Argentinian's line** _never fall in love with a woman who sells herself for a living _from El Tango de Roxanne.

Gwen is wearing **this dress **and totally rocking the flapper look; http:/ vintagetextile. com/ images/ Gallery/

Have a _**Romeo and Juliet**_reference; _palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss_.

I don't care what you say, to me, **Hanatomago/Kukkamuna/TIMO'S DOG will **_**always**_** be a bichon frise**, thanks to _Shrek 2_ and the Fairy Godmother's song. Seriously, google the puppies, they are the most cutest creatures ever.

Gil is apparently **Spiderman**.

OH, WHAT AM I DOING? **References made in regards to literary and cinematic history**, some of which are anachronistic:

_**Antigone**_ is a play by **Jean Cocteau, **written in Paris in 1922, first performed in 1923, based on the Sophocles play of the same name. It's a Greek tragedy based on the story of Oedipus.

The **cross-continental vessel** is, of course, the _RMS_ _Titanic_, which sailed in 1912.

Alfred has apparently decided **he's going to base his play** on a story which hasn't been written yet about a war which hasn't happened yet, best known as Ian McEwan's _Atonement_. (A film, by the way, which I hate. Just putting that out there.) It also has veins of the film, _Enemy at the Gates_, another World War II venture, this time with Jude Law and Rachel Weisz as opposed to James McAvoy and Keira Knightley.

On that note; **Arthur looks** like Jude, and Gwen like a blonde Keira. I'll add everybody else when I've thought of who they look like. (Alfred is totally Chris Evans /shot)

**So that's it for this chapter, my lovelies! Remember to review and alert, whatever you fancy, make me happy, please!**

**++Vince++**


	6. You Don't Have to Wear That Dress

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, Britain, France, Italy Veneciano, Switzerland. Mentioned: Russia, Spain.

**Rating: **K

**Warnings:** A bit of swearing at the end and that's about it.

**Chapter Summary: **In which Alfred makes a mistake and Gwen misses out.

**A/N: ** Wow, long time no see. Spot the _Hunger Games_ shout out! Enjoy my lovelies~!

**You Don't Have to Wear That Dress Tonight (El Tango de Roxanne)**

At lunchtime, Alfred returned to the Moulin Rouge's main hall, sheaf of paper in hand, giddy with excitement.

'Feliciano!' he cried when he saw the tiny Italian. 'Fell, Fell, look, the first scene, what do you think?'

Taken aback by Alfred's exuberance, Feliciano clasped his hands around Alfred's wrists, his skin almost too warm and fingers too strong, and held them still. 'Wow!' he said. 'You write fast!'

He took the proffered papers, gestured at the seat next to him and leant into Alfred's side so they could both read it through at the same time. Sometimes Alfred had to make a note on the paper with a worn-down stub of a pencil that lived in his trouser pocket, and sometimes Feliciano had to ask for a definition of a word within the dialogue, prompting the note.

Half an hour later saw them tearing through the corridors, laughing as they tripped, heading for Francis' office.

'Francis!' Feliciano cried as they burst through the door. 'Francis, Alfred is such a good – oh.'

Francis wasn't there, and the papers atop his desk were a mess.

'Do you think he left in a hurry?' Feliciano asked, stepping further into the room to look closer.

'Looks like,' Alfred agreed. 'So, uh. What do we do now?'

'Go back to the hall, I guess. We can come back later.'

They met Yao at the bottom of the main staircase, and both looked a little surprised to see each other.

'Yao!' Feliciano greeted happily, throwing his arms around the slight doctor's shoulders. 'I didn't expect to see you out of your rooms today!'

'Yes, well, I have duties to attend to.'

Alfred grinned. 'Checking the girls?'

'Something like that. If you'll excuse me, I have things I need to do.'

'Wow,' Feliciano said when he'd gone and they were heading to the doors. 'He's in a bad mood today.'

Alfred shrugged. 'I'm in no position to judge.'

Feliciano shrugged back and shoved his way through the doors. Gil and Gwen were arguing in low tones in the far corner, Matthew desperately trying to mediate and failing miserably.

'Ladies, ladies, ladies,' he was saying. 'Calm down, let's talk it out.'

'We are talking it out,' Gil replied with a dirty smile. 'Aren't we, dear?'

'Oh, aren't we _just_?' Gwen sniped, flicking a stray lock of hair from her face. She'd let it down, Alfred noted, and forgone the hat entirely. 'Even though there's _no way_ it was my fault.'

'Oh don't be obtuse,' Gil hissed. 'You know how these things work – oh, hey guys!'

Gwen went rigid for a split-second before relaxing and turning slowly to face them. She looked a little pasty under blusher applied to her cheeks, and her eyes, even from this distance, were bloodshot and red. It looked a little like she'd been crying. She swallowed thickly, averted her gaze, and walked past them. Alfred caught the smell of white roses as she went, cloyingly thick.

'What was that about?' Feliciano asked, glancing between the two stood opposite him.

'It doesn't matter,' Gil assured him. 'Just a little matter of the routines. Gwen won't be part of the dance tonight.'

Feliciano made a sad little noise low in his throat, and retreated to his spot where he pulled a sketchbook and pencil from under his chair and tuned the world out.

Alfred was left, clutching several sheets of annotated paper in his hands, wondering what he was doing. He bid a quick farewell to the mismatched-couple and fled the hall after Gwen.

'Gwen!' he called. 'Wait up!'

She obligingly slowed, and allowed him to catch up. He didn't miss how she kept her face turned away.

'Are you alright?' he asked. 'You look a little pale.'

'It was a late one last night,' she shrugged, and pushed open a door, leading Alfred into a corridor thick with the smell of white roses. 'I'm just a little tired.'

'You looked fine this morning.'

'I'd drunk a lot of tea.'

'That makes no sense.'

'It's none of your business.'

'Is this what Yao was in a bad mood about? You making yourself ill?'

She stopped dead for a single second, and then continued as though nothing had happened. 'It really is none of your business.'

'Okay,' Alfred said, and ducked through a small side door after her. 'Okay, it's not my business.'

'Why are you even following me?' she demanded after a few moments' silence.

Alfred blinked into the sudden November sun and grinned. 'I wanted your opinion!' He waved the papers at her.

'You've already started writing?' Her tone was a little incredulous, and Alfred thought she looked beautiful, framed by the sun.

'Yeah, and I couldn't find Francis.'

'Oh, he was – he was with me for a while,' she admitted, and picked her way through the garden to a wrought iron bench that had seen better days. 'I needed his assistance on – well, I needed his assistance. Let's have a read then.'

He handed the papers over, flopped onto the bench beside her, arms loose over the back and legs splayed out. He wiggled to get comfortable, and then fell still, just watching her read.

When she was done, she cast him a sidelong glance and said, 'You've never written romance before, have you?'

'Never been in love,' he replied with a shrug.

'Poor thing,' she cooed, and leant back, his fingers brushing her arm, still in his cardigan. 'Let's hope you learn how to write romance before the Official starts requesting to see rehearsals.'

'Teach me,' Alfred blurted after a minute or so of silence.

'What?'

'Not directly, but tell me where I went wrong. Tell me what to fix.'

She watched him and he watched her watch him, and eventually she sighed. Her eyes were horribly bloodshot, not so much as though she'd been crying as she had abused alcohol.

'Alright,' she said. 'Have you got something to write with?'

He handed her his pencil, and she began circling words and marking lines, making notes in the margins.

'It's clumsy,' she told him. 'If they really were childhood sweethearts, there would be nothing blushing-bride about it; it would be the most natural thing in the world to them, a natural progression of their relationship as opposed to something they've stumbled into. Who were you thinking of casting as the leads?'

'You,' he replied automatically. 'That much was obvious – I think it was part of my contract, actually. You're a good actress, so says Francis, and since you're the lead girl. I don't know, it seems right. As for the fellow, well, we'll have to see who fits the part.'

She eyed the paper. 'I hate to say it, but Antonio would probably be your best bet. He's a good enough actor that he might be able to convince an audience he doesn't hate my guts, but I don't put much stock in anyone else.'

She made a note of the name, drawing a neat little arrow to the character's own.

'Thanks,' he said.

'Otherwise,' Gwen hummed, thumbing through the pages quietly. 'It's very good. It's well-written, and with a few tweaks it'll definitely be on its way to perfect.'

He chuckled, and accepted the scene back. 'Thanks,' he repeated. 'I appreciate it.'

'Do keep me updated. I'll try and gauge what the Official wants as much as – can you see that?'

He turned to where she was looking, but there was nothing there. 'What?' he asked.

'Nothing.' She shook her head. 'I just thought I saw. Never mind, it was probably nothing.'

'Are you sure you're alright?' Alfred asked seriously then. 'I mean, you look pretty washed out.'

'Thanks,' Gwen replied, tone dry. 'No, really, I appreciate that.'

He grinned across at her, and then sighed, relaxing.

'What is it?'

'I don't know,' he admitted. 'I just guess I thought I wouldn't be this comfortable around you. I mean, I nearly fainted last night.'

She scoffed. 'Come now, that's an over-exaggeration.'

'Nuh-uh,' he shook his head. 'You really got one on me, you know?'

'I see.'

He smiled a little crookedly, and then frowned at her. 'Gwen, seriously, go and get some rest. You look so ill. You better not have given it to me!'

Gwen didn't look overly amused. 'I would hardly think so.' She paused. 'But better safe than sorry, I suppose.' She rose, and wobbled.

Alfred caught her elbow, on his feet before she'd even stood straight. 'Are you alright?'

'I'm fine,' she replied, shrugging him off. 'If you'll excuse me.'

He watched her go with a slight frown, and then looked out over where she'd been watching. There was nothing there, and even when he went to look himself, there was no sign anything had been there.

* * *

><p>'Is Gwen alright?'<p>

Francis hummed. 'What?'

'Gwen,' Alfred repeated. 'Is she alright?'

'Oh, yes,' Francis assured him. 'She's fine. Just a bit tired, that's all.'

Alfred was silent for a moment. 'You do know that no one likes the Official, right?'

The curator nodded. 'I'm well aware, don't worry. There's little that can be done, though, Alfred. If the _Moulin Rouge_ is to get any kind of publicity outside of hearsay in back alleys, we need revenue, and to get revenue we need money. Ivan will provide us with the money. You understand that, right?'

'Yeah, I guess. I just. Gwen seems really uncomfortable with it.'

Francis capped his pen and folded his hands together. 'Alfred, how long have you known Gwen?'

'A couple of days?'

'Not even that,' Francis corrected. 'After your misdemeanour last night, you've had three, maybe four hours in her company. You can't presume to know her after such a short amount of time together. I have known her for much of my life – her uncle lived not too far from my childhood home. We spent most of our summers together. If anyone can judge Gwen's comfort, it's me. But I assure you, Alfred, Gwen will not allow things with the Official to escalate beyond her control, and neither will I put her in a position where she is forced to make a decision against her loyalty to the people in this house. She is a professional, and will remain as such until such a time as she is free.'

'And when will that be?'

'That depends on how well you do on this play, doesn't it? Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work I must be getting on with.'

Alfred frowned, but nodded and left the office to return to his room.

* * *

><p>There was a rap at the door, and Matthew and Feliciano both poked their heads around it. Alfred was hunched over at his desk, scribbling on a piece of paper. His typewriter sat next to him, top lifted and ink ribbon spilling onto the floor. It wasn't the most advisable way of leaving it, but he'd gotten distracted in the middle of changing the ribbon and had yet to finish the job. He glanced up when they didn't say anything.<p>

'What?' he asked, pulling a face.

'Are you coming down? The show's about to start.'

He blinked and looked up out of the window. 'Oh,' he said. 'I didn't realise it was so late. No, no I think I'll give it a miss. I've got work to do and two parties in a row isn't going to do me any good.'

Feliciano frowned at him, and Matthew shrugged.

'Well,' he said. 'Don't kill yourself working, alright? See you in the morning.'

'Alright, goodnight, guys.'

The door shut and their footsteps receded down the corridor. When he was sure they were gone, he straightened and stretched. He yanked the ink ribbon free and finished replacing it with a little more delicacy than he'd shown in removing it, slamming the top down and bending to stare at himself in the mirror.

'God,' he told himself, 'You look like a wreck.'

He had been in France for a little over forty-eight hours, and already looked as though he'd been living on the streets for half a year. He glanced at the battered, bulky trench-watch wrapped backwards around his wrist, and pursed his lips. Glanced at his reflection. Back at the watch. Back at his reflection. Out of the window.

'Ah, screw it!'

He bolted to the door and down the corridor, throwing himself into the bathroom. He was out ten minutes later, half-dressed with his hair dripping and skin clammy. The soles of his feet were still wet, leaving half-formed prints on the floor as he dashed back to his room, rifled through the wardrobe for a presentable shirt, and threw another cardigan on over the top. Halfway down the corridor towards the stairs, he realised he didn't have his shoes on. He was hallway down the stairs before he snagged his braces on the rail and slid down another three steps. He cursed violently and yanked them on over his shoulders, barely stopping.

In retrospect, he probably looked more of a wreck having cleaned up than he did before. At the time, he didn't care.

He bolted through the corridors, nearly knocked that little blonde girl from the Halloween show off her feet – again – and apologised hastily. She laughed and flitted out of sight. He found the right staircase, and went up it two steps at a time, heart pounding to the beat coming from the main hall, bolting down the corridor before coming to a stop.

Vash raised his eyebrows, stood exactly the same as he had been the previous night.

'What do you want?'

'I'm here to see Gwen. I need her opinion.'

The guard's lips twisted into something that resembled a smile the same way a crocodile looked like a puppy. 'Is that so?'

'C'mon, man, don't be a total dick.'

'If you're going to be like _that_, I'm going to have to send you back the way you came.'

'Vash!'

Vash shook his head. 'Not a chance in hell.'

'Oh, come _on_, don't be an ass, just let me have five minutes with her! One question, that's all I want an answer to. One question.'

'And I'm telling you no. I'm under orders to not let anyone see her tonight. She's got a big day ahead of her tomorrow and her fancy antics last night have worn her out. Go away.'

'Vash, what the hell? I thought you were a decent guy!'

'Stop abusing punctuation and get out of here.'

The door behind him opened and Gwen leant out. 'What on earth are you arguing about?'

'This little prick wants a "word",' Vash told her, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at Alfred. 'I've told him you're not to see anyone.'

'Oh,' she said, and opened the door fully. She was wearing another corset, this time with a diamond pattern down the front clasps, and a light silk robe hanging open over her shoulders. 'I can spare five minutes, but that's all. Alfred, if you'd like to come in so I can stop letting the cold air in as well.'

Alfred grinned triumphantly and slid around Vash's scowl to slip through the door.

Gwen rounded on him as soon as it closed. 'What the hell are you playing at? You do realise I'm supposed to be seeing the Official tonight?'

'Oh. No, I didn't. I just. I wanted to say – I thought.'

'What?'

'I don't know. Today, on the bench.'

'Oh, Lord,' she sighed, and pressed the back of her fingers to her nose. 'Alfred. I thought you were aware that I. Alfred, you're sweet, but.'

'What?' he asked, jaw falling slack. 'I don't understand.'

'It's perfectly natural,' she told him, a sickeningly sweet expression on her face, the kind that reeked of gentle rejection and misplaced affection gone wrong. 'A pretty girl in a foreign country that speaks the same language? It's perfectly natural to feel – that way inclined, but Alfred, I _can't_. Do you understand? You are not part of my clientele, and Francis has made it clear that you are never to be. I'm sorry, but it just won't happen.'

'You think I want to – to – you think that?' he gaped. 'That's what you think? No way, no that's not why I'm here!'

She stepped into him, cold and clammy hands coming up to frame his face. 'Alfred, that's exactly why you're here. You think it's because you want a second opinion on your work.'

'Yes,' he replied. 'If you're playing it, I want you to have input. I just wanted to know if I could call on you at any time. Well not any time, obviously you've got your own work to be doing, but you know, if I need help, you'll be there, that's all I wanted to know.'

'Then why rush to bathe and get here? You had another drive, Alfred, whether you knew it or not.'

He shook his head, hands coming up to hers. 'No, no I swear. I didn't. I just wanted help.'

She rocked her weight forwards, onto her toes, and brought his head down to kiss him. It was a chaste, second-long affair that left him licking his lips, sticky with the wax of her lipstick. She chuckled, barely more than a breath, and smiled, shaking her head.

'You have just proved my point.' She brushed her thumb across his mouth and slid her hands free. 'I think it's best you headed back to your room, if you aren't to attend the show.' She turned and headed to the window. 'I truly am – _Oh._'

'Gwen?' Alfred asked, watching her sway, hand to her brow.

'Oh, _bollocks_.'

He barely managed to make it across the room before she hit the floor, and barely managed to support her dead weight.

'Gwen? Gwen? Oh Christ, did you faint? Alfred, stop asking stupid questions, of course she fainted. What does it look like she did? Oh, um, what am I meant to do?' He stood there for a moment, bent at an awkward angle, and carefully shifted to hold her better, half-carrying her across to the bed. 'Oh, Christ, Gwen, what do I do? What happened?'

There was talking outside, Vash and an unfamiliar voice.

'Oh God,' he whispered. 'Gwen, wake up. Please!'

'No, I'm afraid you'll have to wait,' Vash was saying. 'At present she's not in her room.'

'But she knows I am coming.'

Vash snorted. 'And she has internal organs. Just give her five minutes and come back, alright? Why don't you go look at the stars whilst I see what's keeping her?'

Alfred stared at the door, and then looked at Gwen, and then looked at the window.

'Yeah, not happening,' he hissed, and stared at the door some more.

'I don't think I will,' the voice outside was saying. 'I think I will wait for her in her room.'

'Oh,' Alfred whispered. '_Shit_.'

**++End Chapter++**

A **trench-watch** is an early form of wrist watch given to soldiers during WW1 as a way of allowing them to check the time whilst their hands were free. By the end of the 1920's, most people were using wrist-watches instead of the pocket variety.

In order to a solid substance, **lipstick is made of wax **– usually beeswax. You probably knew that.

**OH ALFRED WHATCHER GUNNA DO.**

**Hope you enjoyed lovelies!**

**++Vince++**


	7. Timestamp: A Kiss on the Hand

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **Britain, France, Liechtenstein, Switzerland. Mentioned: Russia, USA.

**Rating: **K

**Warnings:** A bit of swearing at the end and that's about it.

**Chapter Summary: **The first night after

**A/N: ** Happy Valentine's Day to all the single people out there! Enjoy my lovelies~!

**Timestamp: A Kiss on the Hand is Quite Continental (Sparkling Diamonds)**

The first words Gwen learnt in French were the basis for some of her most creative insults. She had been fluent in French since her childhood, but remained steadfast in her mangling of the pronunciation and the casually disregard for basic grammatical constructs. She particularly liked forming her sentences in a distinctly English manner, just to see Francis cringe when she announced that she'd like to bend him over a table instead of could he pass her the sugar.

An exaggeration on her part, perhaps, but no less fun.

She likes to pretend that she doesn't enjoy France as much as she does, claiming it a drab and terribly boring place to be, full of prostitutes and sketchy characters, and Francis just raises an eyebrow at her, razor blade still against his cheek. When he's done, he'll wash and dry the blade and whip it across his desk where Gwen will pick it up and flip the blade around her wrist for the next several minutes, a flurry of well-practiced movement. He tells her that one day she'll mistime the flick to bring the blade back in and she'll slice her wrist open, and she laughs at him.

(More and more often, she's nicking her fingers and the heel of her hand, so she plays with the straight razor for less and less time on each occasion. Francis has noticed, of course, though neither of them say anything.)

When Gwen had first arrived on the doorstep of the _Moulin Rouge_, she had been clutching Peter's hand in hers and dragging the few things the both of them had brought with them in a battered suitcase behind her. She'd had a few loose coins in a pocket of the trousers she'd thieved, field nurse's uniform tucked in and both of them were wet-through. It had been raining on and off for a week, and the mud had climbed to her knees, forcing her to hoist Peter up onto her still-raw back and try to keep him as dry as possible.

Timo had taken one look at them and opened his mouth to apologise.

'I hear Francis Bonnefoy runs the establishment,' she'd said, and her French was the worst kind she could have used. 'Tell him Gwen Kirkland's here to kick his arse into shape, would you?'

'Um,' Timo had replied, and looked down at Peter. Peter had looked back, squeezing his sister's fingers tight. 'I don't.'

Whilst they stood there staring each other down, Berwald had materialised from God-knows-where, towering over Timo with that kind of silent military poker-face he'd had for the entire time Gwen had known them.

'Don't leave them stood on the doorstep, Wife,' was all he'd said. ''S rude.'

'I'm not your wife!' Timo had protested, but stood aside and ushered them in.

Whilst Gwen was knelt at Peter's feet in a side room, fussing over his shoes and socks, Francis had come sweeping in, all faded blues and hair shorter than it should ever be, and screamed.

Gwen had screamed back, and screamed again when he swept her into a rib-breaking embrace.

She'd cursed him out and clutching equally at her heart and her back. 'Could you possibly contain yourself for a second, Francis?' she'd snapped.

He'd laughed at her, soft and gentle and brotherly in the same way she remembered him, the back of his fingers brushing warm and scabbed across her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair from her ear.

'Goodness,' he'd breathed, taking her hands and looking at her. 'You haven't changed at all. What brings you to my doorstep?'

'Is there somewhere we can talk?' she'd asked, glancing at Peter, who sat with a tight little expression on his face, biting his lip to stop himself from crying. She had gone and knelt in front of him, hands cold against his knees and patted them carefully. 'And someone to look after Pete until we're done?'

Francis had nodded. 'Hold on, I'll get Timo.'

When he'd left the room, Gwen pulled her brother into her arms. 'It'll be alright, love,' she'd whispered. 'It's just for a little while. I want you on your best behaviour, alright? If you throw a tantrum, I'll tan your hide.'

'Yes, Gwen,' he'd replied, and tightened his hands in the back of her dress.

They'd stayed like that until Francis returned with Timo at his heels, and the tiny little Finn had picked Peter up like he weighed nothing (as she found out later, he pretty much did, he was malnourished and received a vicious reprimand for being a terrible guardian, not that she needed it, she knew she wasn't much good at it.) and had left Francis to lead Gwen up to his office.

He'd sat her down and crouched in front of her, and asked her again what had happened.

Voice tight and expression hard, she'd said, 'Arthur's dead. Until I've got the money to get us back to England, we're trapped here. I don't want to impose, hell if I didn't believe for a second we'd die, I wouldn't be here at all. I just need a place for Peter to stay until I can get my head on straight and work out what to do. Francis, please. I've never asked you for anything.'

'You've asked me for plenty of things,' he'd chided, but he was nodding and retook his hold on her hands, dwarfing them in his own, just as scabbed and scarred, sun-dark and ink-stained. 'But of course, of course, you're both welcome to stay here for as long as you need.'

'I can't impose on you like this, Francis. The boy's too much on his own; you don't need me and my drama too.'

He'd rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles, and then hesitated, brushing a little firmer over the middle knuckle of her right hand. She'd fought to keep her expression calm, but her eyes were too easy to read.

'I've got you,' he'd whispered. 'You're okay now. Let it come.'

She'd spent an hour and a half crying into his shoulder, wailing and trying to clock him one, and all the while, he'd sat there and held her broken hands until she ran out of the last of her energy.

'Gwen? Gwen, are you alright?'

She hummed, and looked up. Lili stood there, wringing her hands and eyes worried. Gwen waved her back.

'I'm fine, I'm fine. Just daydreaming.'

Lili looked unconvinced, so she smiled a thin smile and returned to taking the last of her make-up off. 'It's okay, love, it's just been a long night. I'll be alright in a little while.'

'It was a bad nosebleed,' Lili reminded her, and fiddles with the row of brushes on Gwen's dressing table. 'Don't you think the doctor should look at it?'

'Your brother said it was fine, and unless my nose begins to fall off, I'm inclined to believe him. These things happen, Lili, and I'd invited it.'

'But Francis says,' she started, and her elder cut her off.

'Francis doesn't need to know. He wants me to sleep with the Official, I'll sleep with the Official. How I go about it is none of his business. I don't think it makes all that much difference either way, since the only man allowed to touch me now is him.'

Lili frowned. 'I don't like seeing you hurt.'

'I'm fine,' Gwen insisted, French extra hard to assert her point. 'You should head to bed; you've done all you can do for me right now.'

'Do you want a cup of tea before I go?'

'No,' she shook her head, tone softer now. 'If I find myself wanting one, I'll make your brother earn his pay.'

She got to her feet to walk Lili to the door, and bid her goodnight with a kiss to the brow. When she'd said goodnight to her brother and disappeared round the corner, Gwen stood aside to let him in.

'If I'd known,' he started as she flopped onto her bed, 'I'd never have let the dick in.'

'Which one?' she snorted.

'Well, both of them, really,' Vash replied with an idle shrug, and took a seat in the chair she'd vacated. 'But the Official. If I'd known he was going to rough house, I'd have made it clear he was never going to touch you.'

Gwen choked on a laugh and shoved herself to her elbows. 'Vash, love, I'm not made of glass. If I can survive the war, I can survive a rough client. A bloody nose is hardly the most traumatic thing to have happened to me here.'

Vash pursed his lips. 'All the same,' he started, but trailed off and sighed. 'Just be careful. I can hear you whilst you're in here.'

'What are you proposing? We set up some kind of safe word? If he gets too rough, I just say the word and you come rescue you me like a knight in shining armour? Oh, Vash, I'm _touched_,' she cooed, and pulled a face at him.

He pulled one right back, but when he stopped he had a deadly serious look on his face. 'You can joke all you like, Gwen, but my job description is literally "Keep Guinevere Kirkland alive and unharmed, by whatever means necessary." Francis might put up with your shit, but I won't. My job is to keep you in the clean, that's what I'm going to do.'

'You say that as though I've never had a nosebleed before. Come now, surely you remember what I was like when I first arrived? The stunts I pulled.'

'You've stopped that though, right?'

Gwen would deny it to her dying day, but the look of doubt that lingered on Vash's face felt like she'd been punched in the gut. She pasted a smile on her face and nodded.

'Yes, don't worry. I'm on the straight and narrow now, Francis made sure of that. Not that I have the privacy to pull any stunts with you following me everywhere I go.'

'It's in my job description,' Vash replied with a grunt, and folded his arms. 'What do you want to do about him?'

'About who?'

'The kid.'

'The writer?' She shook her head and flopped back onto the mattress. 'What would you do that doesn't involve guns and blood sprayed across the wall?'

'That never happened. I punched him in the face and he smeared the mural Feliciano had been painting. There was no blood involved, let alone enough to be sprayed on the wall. Really, Kirkland, you should know better by now.'

'I know, I know,' she dismissed, waving a hand in his general direction. 'I was joking. It was a serious question, though.'

'I'd keep him at arm's length,' Vash replied. 'He's enamoured with you, I could see it all over his face. I don't think he's got the wits to act on it, he's too – ah, how do I say it?'

'Virginal?'

'Yes.'

'Yes, Francis thought it was rather cute that he was still a virgin. Why he felt obliged to inform me when it's none of my business, I'll never know.'

'Just be careful,' Vash warned her softly. 'He knows what you do, who you are. I don't know if it'll be enough to keep him away. I'll try my best to keep him out of your way, but he'll be a tenacious bastard, I can guarantee that, if nothing else.'

'Do you suppose it's because I'm English – or rather, a native English speaker? I'm the closest to his nationality here, after Matthew.'

'Perhaps. Matthew makes him awkward. He flinches away when Matthew's close enough. I don't think he realises he does it.'

'Because of Gil?'

'I don't know, perhaps. Apparently, he passed out when he arrived.'

'Oh, is _that_ what Gil was screeching about? I had wondered what she was on about. Something about Shell Shock?'

'You'd have to ask Matthew about it. All I know is he passed out, and it was something to do with the perfume in the corridors.'

'My perfume?'

'Not a clue.'

She exhaled heavily and tutted to herself. 'Well, I suppose what will be will be. I'll do my best not to give him any fuel. I doubt his fire needs any stoking.'

Vash snorted with laughter and got to his feet. 'Is there anything you need?'

'No, I think I'll be alright for the night. Thank you all the same.'

'Alright, I'll see you in the morning then. I was serious about the safe word, you know.'

'I know. I'll think about it.'

'Goodnight, Kirkland.'

'Goodnight, fair knight.'

He shut the door quietly, and Gwen hauled herself to her feet and went to the window. Leaning on the frame with her arms folded and ankles crossed, she looked down on the garden and watched Matthew desperately try to reign a blatantly-drunk Gil back into her own suite. He was failing, so Gwen stepped onto the balcony and leant over the railing.

'Oi!' she bellowed. 'Whitey! Get your pasty arse back inside and stop embarrassing yourself.'

Gil laughed up at her, arms spread and twirling on the spot. 'Like you could catch me, short stuff!'

'You're going to make yourself vomit, and you'll have to sort yourself out!'

'Nah,' the Prussian dismissed, pulling faces. 'Mattie'll keep me sweet.'

'And when Matthew comes and spends the night with me to get away from your drunk arse? What then?'

'Don't lie to me, dearie, Mattie doesn't go and spend the night with you!'

Gwen hoped Matthew could see her smiling, and sighed in relief when he grinned.

'I do, you know,' he said, looking off at the rose bushes with innocence written across his shoulders. It was a lie, of course, but Gil didn't need to know. 'It's very fun spending a night with her. She's a very fun drunk. She can do all sorts of things.'

Gil's ears were red even from this distance. 'Oh, it's on!'

When she'd shoved Matthew back inside and slammed the door, Gwen smiled to herself and latched the windows shut.

As she turned back to her bed, her vision swam, stars bursting behind her eyes. Gasping a little, she did as her training taught her and sank to the floor, lying back and pulling her feet off the floor. She lay there with her eyes closed until the headache abated enough that she felt like she could get to her feet. She staggered over to her bed and collapsed there, lying in silence until sleep claimed her.

Her dreaming mind imagined that there were warm fingers on the back of her neck, running through her hair and warm lips on her brow, the smell of barley in her nose and the softness of a gentle smile pressed against her own.

**++End Timestamp++**

**NOTES::**

Francis uses a **straight edge razor**, which were still common in the early 20th century, though began to fade out with the introduction of the electric razor in the 1930's. Nowadays, only barbers use them. Think Sweeney Todd.

**Shell Shock** is one of the old names for PTSD. It's an out-dated term these days, and refers specifically to a military origin. It's known these days as Combat Stress Reaction, though Shell Shock is still used in colloquial terms.

I – really struggle to write Vash, really badly. I hope I haven't written him too badly.

**Hope you enjoyed my lovelies!**

**++Vince++**


	8. My Makeup May be Flaking

**For this Chapter:**

**Character(s), Pairing(s): **USA, Britain, France, Italy Veneciano, Switzerland, Russia, Canada, Prussia, Germany, Belgium, Sweden.

**Rating: **T

**Warnings:** Alfred gets ~thoughtful~

**Chapter Summary: **Alfred thinks too much and Francis is working too hard.

**A/N: ** Guess who's back, back again, Vince is back, tell a friend. So it's waaaaaaaay late, and it's not whotalia, but happy belated birthday Silence, darling! Enjoy my lovelies~

**My Makeup May be Flaking (Show Must Go On)**

'Shit,' Alfred cursed, and then spat some more when it felt like that wasn't good enough.

Gwen remained unconscious. The window was looking like a more promising option each time he looked at it. Broken bones were more preferable than murder; if not by the Official, then by Francis for screwing it up.

He dove behind the folding screen in the corner and pretended he didn't exist. It was just in time, too, as the Official managed to shove his way in, ignoring Vash's increasingly noisy curses. Alfred took a breath, realised he was staring at one of Gwen's Basques, and interested himself in the pretty pattern embroidered on it.

'Oh,' the Official said.

_Congratulations_, Alfred thought. _You're a master of observation._

'Guinevere is asleep.'

'You what?' Vash demanded. 'Get out of my way.' There was a clatter, and then Vash's shadow fell across the screen. Alfred held his breath. 'You need to leave,' the guard announced. 'Now.'

'But I just got here!'

'_Now_.'

The door slammed, and a second later the screen toppled. Alfred, still in his tight crouch, looked up in time to see Vash put a hand over his face.

'I should have known,' he said, and Alfred got to his feet to put the screen up. 'What happened?'

'She fainted,' Alfred explained.

'Again?' Vash shook his head. 'What did you do?'

'Stopped me from breaking my neck,' Gwen groaned, and waved a dainty, indirect hand when both men turned to her, questions half-formed. 'It's these stupid costumes. I'm alright.'

She looked anything but, pale and drawn with sweat on her brow, but Alfred said nothing, letting Vash fuss over her whilst she tried, unsuccessfully, to bat him away.

'For – honestly! – Goddammit, Vash, I'm _fine_!'

'You fainted again!' Vash snapped. Angry seemed to be his default mood, but this was something more than simply anger at the world. There was something else going on, Alfred knew, but he had no idea what. 'Stay put, I'm going to get Yao.'

'I don't need –' Gwen started, but the door slammed open and Feliciano tumbled in, agitated and hyperactive.

'Help!' he screeched, and leapt into Alfred's unprepared arms.

'What the hell is going on?' he asked, scrabbling to keep both his grip on the tiny Italian and his footing.

He'd barely gotten the words out before a fuming Russian came stomping in. If he registered any oddity in their positioning, he said nothing. He looked pretty angry, Alfred decided, grimacing when Feliciano buried his face in his neck.

'You!' the Official snapped. 'Apologise!'

'Who?' Alfred asked.

'The tiny one!' the Official replied, and then intensified his glare. Alfred hadn't thought it possible. 'What are you doing here?'

'What did Feli do first?' Alfred countered.

'He insulted my patronage and implied it was nothing special!'

'I'm not very good with French!' Feliciano wailed, and Alfred had to give him that. It was kind of skewed at times. 'I didn't mean to!'

'He's excitable,' Alfred dismissed. 'You have to know that by now, you've been to the shows. All Italians are like it, you were in the War, right? You should be thankful he didn't take your eye out.'

Vash stared at him, and Gwen's jaw went slack. The Official went purple. Feliciano went still and didn't look up from Alfred's shirt collar.

'What?' Alfred asked. 'It's true.'

'That doesn't mean you _say_ it!' Gwen snapped.

Alfred rolled his eyes. 'Was there something you wanted?' he asked the Official. 'Feli's kind of heavy and my arms are going numb and I'd really like to go to bed.'

He didn't dare glance over at Gwen, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled from the force of her look. There was several seconds of tense, horrible silence, and then the Official laughed.

It was the most terrifying thing Alfred had ever heard.

'Go to bed, little puppy,' the Official cooed. 'Wouldn't want to keep you from your master.'

Alfred did look at Gwen then, but she looked as every bit as confused as he did, though she did a better job of hiding it behind her fussing to make herself presentable. When she caught him looking, she raised her eyebrows pointedly, sliding her eyes over to the Official.

'Yes, well,' Alfred said, not knowing what to do. Feliciano showed no inclination of letting go any time soon, so he supposed he'd have to go dump the Italian on the nearest suitable candidate. 'I'd best be off.'

'Yes, I suppose you better,' Gwen said, but she wasn't looking at him. 'Good night, Mister Jones.'

'Um, yeah. G'night.'

The Official took only one step to the side when Alfred made to leave the room, which of course meant that their shoulders knocked. As soon as the door had slammed shut on his heels, Feliciano was fighting to be put down, jabbering on to himself in Italian. Alfred didn't recognise many of the words, but he knew the tone, and wasn't surprised to know that Feliciano was scared.

He was too.

'Alfred!'

'Matt!' He turned, surprised at the Canadian's appearance.

It would have been a lie to say he was surprised by Gil appearing at his elbow, but he was surprised by the fact he wasn't surprised.

'God, I'm tired,' he said.

Gil stomped past him to fuss over Feliciano, and surprised Alfred – and Matthew too, judging by the expression – by talking in as rapid Italian as Feliciano.

'I knew she spoke it,' Matthew mused, and tugged Alfred's elbow. 'Didn't know she could go that fast. Hey, I'll take him backstage.'

'Alright,' Gil tossed over her shoulder, and turned back to Feliciano.

'Come on.'

Alfred followed the taller man down the corridor and into the backstage proper. Ludwig was standing at the bottom of a rope, grumbling to himself in German, and then turned to address a man Alfred hadn't met standing at the other side of the curtains.

'It's the pulleys. But it'll have to wait for the morning now.'

'Alright. Is there anything else to do?'

'No, you might as well turn in. Goodnight.'

'Goodnight.'

And then he was gone.

'Ludwig,' Matthew said in greeting and attention-grabbing both, and the German turned, eyebrows raised.

'Matthew, Alfred. What brings you this way, I thought you'd retired for the night?'

Matthew snorted. 'So did I, but this one – ' he jerks a thumb at Alfred ' – Decides he's going to take a jaunt to Gwen's room. Feliciano apparently saw him, and started screaming up a storm, running through every corridor he could, managed to put the Official in a bad mood and made a mess. It was a good night for him.'

'Oh, Christ,' Ludwig sighed. 'Where is he?'

'Gil's with him, up by Gwen's room. They'll probably be in the dressing room by now.'

'I just wanted some advice,' Alfred groused.

Matthew rounded on him. 'Advice on what? How to get us all killed? Because you're doing a _grand_ job of that, Al! It might have escaped your notice in America, but here in Europe, in France, we're still trying to clear up the mess! We don't _want_ the Soviets' help, but we need it.'

'We could have helped,' Alfred said.

'Because a country that bans alcohol is going to finance a brothel. Of course.'

'He's right, Alfred,' Ludwig added, 'We don't have any choice. The deal is done now, either way. If we renege, the Official will make sure that we lose everything we have worked for here. If we're lucky, we'll leave with our lives.'

'Is that what you'd do?'

'It's what a businessman would do,' Francis said, and Alfred turned to look at him. 'You look tired, Alfred, you should go to bed. And stay there until I can clear this mess up.'

'How long have you been there?'

'Long enough to know that perhaps we shouldn't have looked abroad for a writer!' Francis snapped, and Alfred flinched. The Frenchman sighed, raked a hand through his hair. Though he couldn't have been older than his mid-thirties, he looked a lot older suddenly. 'Get out of my sight, Alfred, I don't want to see you until tomorrow afternoon at least.'

Alfred looked to Matthew, but Matthew had already turned away, leaving him without a – a what, exactly? Matthew was hardly a friend.

'Alright,' he said, and lowered his head, returned to his quarters.

* * *

><p>Alfred had grown bored within an hour of being awake. The pretty blonde girl from the first night, who had called him brave for watching the show sober had come to bring him breakfast. When he answered the door, half-dressed and half-asleep, she had set the tray on his desk, perched herself on the edge of his bed and told him she wasn't to leave until he was done eating.<p>

They chatted idly for the half-hour it took him to eat and down the mug of cocoa she'd brought him. He'd tried to ask her questions about what was going on outside of his room, but she just smiled a very feline smile and changed the subject.

When she'd gone, he was left to his own devices, and had grown bored too quickly.

There was no motivation to write; Gwen's words had stung. Attracted to her? Yes, he wouldn't deny that he had an attraction to her, would be a fool to lie about it. She was incredibly attractive, and he was always one to appreciate beauty when he saw it. He had not thought of his "type" for some time, not since he was a boy in school, but he supposed, if anyone fitted the bill, it was her. It was Gwen Kirkland, with her tiny waist and green eyes and loose curls.

It didn't escape him that physically, there was little difference between her and Marie except for the latter's measurements being a good ten inches larger. But he wasn't attracted to Marie the way he was attracted to Gwen. Not to say he had anything against Marie, she was every bit as pretty as Gwen, but she wasn't the same. She was pretty in a hundred different ways, and oh! Why was he trying to justify it to himself?

He was so attracted to Gwen he might as well be in love with her!

Her casual disregard of his feelings, her acknowledgement and dismissal of them had hurt. At the time, he hadn't thought, but this pointless waiting, the boredom tugging at him, it gave him nothing to do except perform a long-overdue introspection upon himself and discover things he would try to deny for a long time yet.

For a while, he tried to find reasons to not be attracted to her, but in the end it as all superficial nonsense. Being English was hardly a reason to dislike someone. It felt like he'd been stabbed when he realised that was the same reason he used to dislike Gil, only reversed. He supposed he had been a little hard on her.

God, but he hated introspection!

In the end, he sprawled out on his bed and stared at the ceiling, counting all the things that he liked about Gwen. Best to get it all out in the open so he knew. The list soon added up and there was nothing about her except perhaps her lying that he did not like.

She was definitely lying. What about, he wasn't sure. But she _was_ lying. That he was sure of. He'd find it out eventually, because such was his way, but for now, he took everything with a generous pinch of salt.

Still, for her to have denied him so heartlessly. But then, it wasn't exactly heartless, was it? She had tried to ease him into submission, into acceptance. He didn't have a chance, give it up, kid.

He wished he could, but his head was filled with her.

He wondered, thinking back over the days he'd been here, over the way the other workers here, and the way they'd treated him – Feliciano's pity and Matthew's smugness – and he wondered whether they'd known, from the moment they met him, whether he was doomed to love the one woman he could never have. Part of him knew they couldn't possibly have had the precognition to allow them to see that – what would have happened to their theories were his attractions to lay in his own gender? Gwen would probably have been male, he supposes. Hell, Gwen would probably have been replaced with Arthur himself, and Gwen would have been the one to lose her life in the Great War.

That train of thought stopped right there; Gwen was alive, and mostly well, bar that illness she'd had on the first night, and he had touched her, felt her skin under his fingers. She was definitely real, definitely there. By the looks of things, she wasn't going anywhere for a long time.

He heaved a sigh and rolled onto his front, face pressed into the pillows. What a waste of time and effort this was! If he was not bound to his room, he would probably have stayed in there anyway to write, but with no exit allowed, except to the bathroom (Marie had said that someone was guarding the top of the stairs and no matter how strong Alfred thought he was, there was no way he was getting past that guard, he'd have to be foolish to try), he didn't want to do anything except mope.

'Oh, come on, Alfred!' he chided himself, and got to his feet. If nothing else, he could waste some time in the bathroom. 'You're being ridiculous.'

He was being more than ridiculous, he was being downright pathetic, but he'd rather not admit that to himself. He'd admitted enough to himself for now.

* * *

><p>In the afternoon, Alfred was brought lunch by Marie, who stayed again, and stole some of the bread off the plate.<p>

'What?' she asked, affronted when he gave her a look. 'I'm hungry!'

'You are _always_ hungry,' he replied, and let it go. He wasn't particularly hungry himself, so it didn't much matter.

She laughed and told him he'd be collected when Francis wasn't seriously contemplating shoving him down some stairs or painting a marker on the back of his jacket and leading him past Vash.

'You're not funny,' he told her.

'I'm hilarious,' she replied, and left with a swish of her skirts.

It was apparently his guard from the end of the corridor that came to collect him, a tall blond fellow with a severe expression and taller than Alfred by a head.

'Jesus Christ,' Alfred said, as they walked along the corridor, the guard leading a little. 'What did you eat as a kid? You're huge.'

'I am an average height for my people.'

'Like hell you are!'

'No, perhaps not.'

'Where are you from anyway, for that to be average?'

'Sweden.'

That explained a lot of things, Alfred supposed, and let the Swede lead him down the corridor and back into the main hall. Francis was standing and discussing something with Feliciano at the mural of the girls painted as angels, but stopped when the Swede coughed to announce Alfred's presence. Francis immediately turned back to Feliciano and gave a brief promise to carry on their conversation at a later date and came to stand before Alfred, looking contrite.

'I apologise for my behaviour yesterday,' he said. 'It was unjustified to be so harsh.'

'No,' Alfred disagreed. 'I was pretty terrible yesterday, I admit that. I didn't think I'd set the Official off. Was everything alright in the end?'

Francis blinked; a twitchy sort of blink, he thought, and didn't seem particularly happy. 'Yes,' he said in the end. 'It all worked out.'

'Oh,' Alfred said, a quiet little noise. 'That's good, then.'

'Yes. Now, walk with me, Alfred, Feliciano says you'd worked on the play yesterday.'

For a little while, they walk and talk, and Francis led him out into the gardens, and though they didn't sit on the bench Alfred had sat on with Gwen, they did take a seat on another. Francis listened to Alfred as he rambled his way through the plot of the play he had cooked up with Gwen, and laughed a little when Alfred admitted to it having upset Gwen.

'I am surprised she showed so much emotion,' he hummed, crossing an ankle over his knee. 'Then again, I suppose it would have surprised her enough.'

'I never meant to upset her,' Alfred said.

'Yes,' Francis hummed. 'I believe you. You are very naïve, Alfred, for someone who has seen war so close.'

Alfred pursed his lips and looked at his shoes. 'I suppose I haven't adjusted as well as I thought I had,' he said after a few minutes of silence. 'I thought I was okay.'

'Evidently not.' But Francis was smiling, a little, so Alfred supposed he'd been forgiven, or at least was on his way to being forgiven. Best not to push it though.

'I should go and work some more,' he said.

'You are free to join us for our evening meal,' Francis told him as the American got to his feet. 'I had only wanted you to stay away for the morning so that the Official would not have the misfortune of seeing you before he left.'

'He stayed over?' Alfred asked, incredulous.

'Yes,' Francis said, but said nothing else.

Alfred knew that he wouldn't give him any more information, and something churned in his gut. Gwen had _fainted_, she had looked a wreck when she came around, and if the Official has spent the night, had it been in her bed? Surely neither Francis nor the Official could expect her to – to – to _sleep_ with him in such a state! He looked at Francis, tried to gauge his expression, but Francis was much too good at controlling his features, and it was neutral, on the side of impatient, even.

He huffed and stomped off back to his room.

He bumped into Gil on the way, dressed in her own clothes this time, but with what looked like Matthew's jacket.

'Do you make it a point to wear at least one item of Matt's clothes whenever you can?'

'Yes,' she replied, and her eyes narrowed, arms folding across her chest. 'What do you want?'

He scuffed his toes on the floorboards. 'I wanted to apologise. I treated you pretty badly.'

'Yes,' she replied, a little softer now. 'You did.'

'I can't promise I won't be rude again.' Best to let her know. 'But I'll try.'

'Apology accepted,' she said, and carried on the way she was going.

There was little he could write; he churned out the next two scenes, in a pretty poor first draft form, but without input from Gwen, he couldn't be certain of any of it. Feliciano gave him the best advice he could, being fond of plays and stories in general, but it wasn't the same.

'Why does Gwen smell of white roses?' he asked suddenly, and then blushed.

Feliciano took a few moments to think about it, thumbing the corner of one of the pages as he did. 'I don't know,' he admitted. 'I think it reminds her of home. You'd have to ask her. Now, this bit here, it doesn't sound right. I've never heard that word before.'

**++End Chapter++**

**NOTES::**

For those not familiar with my headcanon, **Belgium's human name is Marie Lateau.**

Does that make **Berwald **the tallest character? Probaly. Whoops, playing with the heights again.

Yo long time no see, I apologise for the break in updates on anything, I've been busy with Uni and other projects and an apathy for the pairing but hey, a bad mood last night seemed to inspire me to write so here you go have a kind of terrible update!

**++Vince++**


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